


Run Him Like a Blade

by gloriouscacophony



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Assassins & Hitmen, BAMF!John, Guns, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, evil!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:39:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 34,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloriouscacophony/pseuds/gloriouscacophony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hitman!John/evil!John AU: After Sherlock's death, John can't feel anything and is sick of the pity. When a case goes wrong and he kills a suspect, the rush restores him and killing becomes appealing. Will Sherlock return too late to reverse the damage?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

Mrs. Hudson had told him to wear a scarf or at least a thicker jacket, but John Watson barely feels the bone-numbing chill of the late fall air as he stands by the grave. It's too beautiful a day for such a gloomy errand, but John's attention is focused on more important things than the beautiful blue sky or crisp, vibrantly colourful leaves. Faded flowers are propped against the black marble headstone, brought by Mrs. Hudson a few weeks ago. It's been two months since he had barely controlled himself enough to walk away from Sherlock Holmes' final resting place without crying (too unmanly, crying in public, even at a loss that left him feeling as though his insides had been torn out and never replaced.)

Back then, he had wiped his eyes and walked away. Eight weeks later, it's getting more and more difficult to walk away from his weekly visits with any conviction that his therapist is right about grief. It hasn't lessened, only shifted, becoming less raw but more unbearably heavy. A weight has settled in his chest and refused to budge. He had come back from Afghanistan with little hope that life would improve beyond dull olive walls and beige jumpers. Suddenly, there was Sherlock, petty and rude and a pain in the arse but so much better than post traumatic stress disorder and a psychosomatic limp that garnered him pitying looks wherever he went.

For a year, he had had the thrill of sprinting down dark alleyways with Sherlock in pursuit of some vital clue or miserably fast suspect, limp forgotten as he tried to keep up. He had had late night takeaway and early morning tea (all Sherlock would take in the morning, unless John forced him to eat a bit of toast or the occasional egg.) There had been crime scenes and crap telly and bickering and accusations and finally, those long seconds when John had wished he had used his knowledge as the only person Sherlock Holmes had called a friend in over ten years to realise that the look in Sherlock's eyes had been a painful but necessary bluff of coldness and disdain. He had told John to go and John had gone, furious beyond belief at Sherlock's lack of compassion for Mrs. Hudson. Now the olive and beige, the colour of his army uniform and his lonely bedsit, has come back, and this time there is no Sherlock to dislodge the endless, monotonous boredom.

His fist clenches slightly at his side. No matter how many times he recalls the day, what he remembers most is the contrast between the looks on Sherlock's face when John had screamed at him, calling him a machine and heartless, and when he had reached his hand towards John from the roof of St. Bart's only hours later. He had told his therapist all of this, only to see that same look of pity in her eyes as she told him that Sherlock's death was not his fault. He had pulled away from the touch of her hand on his wrist as he replied dully that indeed it was. She had removed her hand and asked about Mrs. Hudson instead.

The mobile in his pocket beeps softly and a tiny tendril of anger blooms in his stomach at the interruption.

_Breakthrough in the Alexander case. Hoping you could stop  
by the lab to see Molly when you're free – Greg_

The few people who are important in his life knew exactly where John is today and every Sunday morning for the foreseeable future, and Lestrade damn well knows, yet he had still sent the text. John shoves his phone back into his pocket and stalks away, furious with Lestrade and furious with Sherlock and furious most of all with himself when he isn't too busy being completely numb.

 

 

Bart's is quiet, as usual for a Sunday morning. He manages to make it to Molly's basement lab without running into anyone familiar (god forbid he see Sarah and have to put up with the look and have to lie to her with false reassurances and an even more false smile for the umpteenth time.) Down in the basement, it's quiet and dark and peaceful. Is this what death is like, cool and serene and comforting? No more pity and loss, only relief at finally being _done_ , no standards to meet, only relief from the exhaustion of pretending to be interested in the endless repetition of life.

Molly is bent over a microscope when he leaves the darkness of the hallway behind and steps into the warmer glow of the lab's yellow lights. A brief expression of shock appears on her face, barely noticeable before it's replaced with a small smile.

"There wasn't much to go by, but I was able to extract a DNA sample from the blood on the hairbrush. Looks like it was her husband after all. Greg's working on figuring out where he's hidden away since he hasn't been back to his apartment yet."

The silence lengthens, and John realises it's his turn to speak. "Anything else?"

She shakes her head, a wrinkle of worry appearing on her forehead. "No, but…I just wanted to see how you're doing. You haven't been down here since the last case two weeks ago, and—"

John doesn't let her finish. "I'm fine, really. Everything's fine." Perhaps he should have attempted to put a little more effort into the statement because Molly doesn't look convinced.

"John, I know it's been difficult, but you know if you need anything, you can come to me. Because you don't sound fine and you don't look fine."

He pastes a close-lipped smile onto his face. Clearly a bad idea, since now Molly's eyes have teared up and she looks like she is about to hug him and he really, truly can't pretend to be feeling something he isn't when all he feels is a void occasionally cut through with an acid burn of frustration that's probably the start of an ulcer. Christ, he is almost forty and feels so tired at pretending.

"I've got to go. I'll, er, call you."

He retreats quickly, already out the door before a few tears spill down Molly's cheeks, too far away to hear her whisper, "No, you won't," before she wipes the drops off her cheek and goes back to work with shaking hands.

 

 

He runs into Mrs. Hudson in the hallway at Baker Street. Nowhere is the look found more often than on her face; in fact, it seems her default expression for him nowadays. He puts up with the look and the copious amounts of food she thinks it necessary to give him daily, even though he insists that he can and does still shop for himself and is still capable of cooking. Today it's some sort of quiche that she thrusts into his hands after he takes off his jacket.

"Oh dear, look at the state of you. Have you slept at all? I know you said no before, but some of my herbal soothers really might help you get some rest."

"I'm a doctor, Mrs. Hudson, I can get sleeping pills if I need them. Thanks for the quiche."

As he makes his way upstairs, he can tell without seeing that she is shaking her head sadly. "It's so sad to see you like this, dear. It's been two months, don't you think you should—"

Perhaps he slams the door as he retreats to the flat. Or maybe just closes it a bit harder than necessary.

No more piles of books or papers to navigate. No knife in the mantel holding a dusty stack of letters. No mouldering remains rotting away in the fridge. Most of Sherlock's belongings had been packed away by John and Greg in the days right after the funeral, sorted into banker's boxes labelled carefully and placed in neat stacks in Sherlock's bedroom. The books that had been shelved next to the fireplace remain in their place and a few racks of test tubes still live on the kitchen shelves, but the flat is cleaner and far too empty now. Greg had offered to patch the bullet holes in the wall and try to find the paper to repair the damage, but John had just shaken his head numbly and the project had been forgotten.

The boiling water in the electric kettle is suddenly fascinating. John carries his tea over to the living room and sits in his chair. His shoes are kicked off to land by the fireplace. He drinks cup after cup of tea as the shadows on the wall grow longer and the sounds of traffic in the street below grow louder. Weekend visits to the countryside would be over soon as Londoners returned home to prepare for the start of another work week. He hadn't been to the clinic in three weeks, and Sarah had stopped calling.

His growling stomach reminds him that food is probably necessary by this point. He heats up a slice of the quiche and returns to the chair, flicking on the telly. Some sort of history programme about the pyramids is on, and he watches mindlessly, the noise a welcome break from the quiet. It's only five o'clock; five more hours before he can shower and sleep and wake up to more pity and no chases or shootouts or brilliant blue-gray-green eyes studying him as he tries to catch up with Sherlock, who had no doubt deduced the solution dozens of minutes ago but still waits for John to figure it out.

He must have dozed off sometime after finishing the quiche, because he dreams. He is limping, cane in hand, through the park. When he passes the duck pond, Harry is there, feeding the birds seashells because the pond is no longer a duck pond but an ocean. They sit on a bench as the surf moves to cover their feet and the ducks paddle around them, quacking loudly until Harry feeds them more shells.

She frowns at him then, studying his face.

"There's something wrong with you. You're not right anymore."

He doesn't respond, and she goes on, still feeding the ducks without her piercing eyes ever leaving his face.

"You've got bags under your eyes and your limp is back. Don't you think you've carried on enough already?"

He gapes at that, unable to speak. The tide had surged and now the water covers their laps, but Harry hasn't noticed. "He's dead and he's not coming back and frankly, John, this is starting to get pathetic."

The water reaches his chest, and there are more ducks coming from among the half-submerged trees, and he still can't speak.

"Why can't you just get over it? It's been two months and he's not coming back and everyone's getting sick of tiptoeing around your grief," Harry hisses. "What are you waiting for? Pull yourself _together_."

He finally manages to whisper, "I can't," before the water reaches his lips and he chokes and the ocean swallows him.

John wakes with a start to find that the sky is dark, the lamp in the corner has been switched on, and Mycroft Holmes is perched in Sherlock's chair, watching him.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hello, John." Mycroft is perched stiffly in Sherlock's chair with his umbrella across his knees and a small upturning of his lips that would have been a smile on someone else's face. "Bad dream?"

John scrubs at his face and gazes with bleary eyes at Mycroft, who looks unchanged since the last time he had paid a visit to 221B Baker Street weeks ago. Judging by the bespoke pinstriped suit and immaculate shoes, one would never be able to tell that the man was sitting in the leather armchair of his dead brother. If he could muster up any shred of caring, he would be furious at Mycroft. Instead, John sighs and makes his way to the kitchen to put the kettle on yet again.

"Do you really need any more caffeine today?" 

Of course Mycroft knows exactly how John had spent his day and how much tea he has already had. Probably watched footage of John standing by Sherlock's grave - because no matter how often John asks, he is sure Mycroft's beady-eyed cameras still survey the cemetery - and tried to understand why this man who had known Sherlock for little over a year cared more than his brother did.

He's tempted to dump the tea on Mycroft's lap but hands the cup to him instead. Shame to ruin a good suit. "What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

The put-out frown fits Mycroft's face much better than that creepy half-smile. "I came to check up on you. The detective inspector is…concerned about your welfare. As am I. It's been two months since my brother's death and—"

The words echo his dream too much for comfort. "—and I should just get over it already. I should move on and pretend I didn't watch him kill himself right in front of me." An icy numbness grips his middle, and Mycroft watches him, frown deepening, as John grips his chair's arms a little too tightly for his neutral tone.

"He wouldn't want you to be like this."

John lets out a humourless chuckle at the attempt at sentiment. "How the hell would you know? We both know he couldn't stand being around you. You _betrayed_ him, Mycroft. If it's anyone's fault that I'm 'like this,' it's quite possibly yours."

Mycroft's eyebrows fly up at that. "I see." He sets aside his tea and stands, umbrella in hand, to leave. John walks him to the door, his hand on the doorknob when Mycroft pauses and catches John's eyes with his own.

"Lestrade has you working on the Alexander case. He's going to be calling you shortly to discuss apprehending the suspect, Ned Alexander. I feel I should warn you to be careful. Alexander is linked with one of London's more dangerous crime syndicates, and he will not be an easy man to capture."

John nods curtly and opens the door. Mycroft reaches the end of the landing before turning to address him. "I regret my actions, John. I did care about my brother," he admits quietly.

"Don't come here again." He shuts the door loudly for the second time that day.

When he finally falls asleep that night, John dreams of the war. Guns and bloodshed and violence rouse fear and adrenaline that wake him gasping in the darkness as his hands scrabble at the sheets.

 

 

The Tube is crowded with lunchtime commuters, several of whom press closer to John than is entirely comfortable. He hates the noise and the bustle and had gotten used to travel by taxi, but money has gotten even tighter since Sherlock's death. With no more clients and no more clinic work, he knows sooner or later that he'll go to scan a box of tea or litre of milk at Tesco and an error message warning of insufficient funds will flash across the screen of the chip and pin machine. So he puts up with the pointy elbow of the skinny blond teenager behind him and the none-too-pleasant odour of the probably homeless man to his left and endures the ride in silence.

He manages to dodge the heavy traffic on Broadway after escaping the Saint James's station and arrives at New Scotland Yard without incident. Lestrade is at his desk, feet propped up and pastry in hand as he skims one of a stack of case files. When John knocks quietly at the open door, he swallows the large bite of jelly doughnut and sets down the file.

"Hey. Molly said you stopped by and she told you about the hairbrush. We're still waiting to hear back, should be soon though."

John nods. The silence stretches again, lessened slightly by the distraction of an assistant delivering another thick folder to Lestrade, who groans and rubs at his eyes. "When this day is over, I am going to be in serious need of a drink. I know you've been…er, busy, but would you want to go out for a pint?"

"Sure." Perhaps he could have put more enthusiasm into his response. Lestrade studies him, a frown too much like Mycroft's appearing on his face.

"All right, John? I know the last few cases weren't exactly action-packed, but you know the Yard really doesn't see that many exciting cases…"

The silence returns as Lestrade trails off apologetically.

"It's fine. I'm fine. A drink would be nice."

Footsteps behind him and the movement of Lestrade's eyes away from John's alert him to someone else's presence. Anderson, armed with yet another folder of paperwork and the sneer he seemed to reserve just for John these days.

"Detective Inspector, there seems to be a civilian taking up space in your office. Still letting him pretend to work here?"

Lestrade waves him closer, rolling his eyes with a sigh at Anderson's pettishness. "Not that it's any of your business, since I am in charge of this division last I checked. Is that the paperwork from the Prichard murder?"

"Lab results came in this morning, so I was finally able to finish the report."

As he walks forward to hand the file to Lestrade, he bumps John's bad shoulder and turns to smirk an apology. The tendril of anger rekindles in John's stomach, surprisingly and suddenly potent. Two months of putting up with Anderson's mocking condescension - made worse when fuelled by the presence of Sally Donovan - is enough to briefly cut through the fog that blankets John, and his hand twitches as he resisted the urge to shove Anderson through the glass wall of Lestrade's office. Although the glass is probably bulletproof which meant that, at best, Anderson would end up with a concussion. John thinks he could probably live with that.

But the time for retaliation passes as Lestrade flips through the pages of the report and queries the forensic tech about his writeup. It's as if he isn't even in the room, but it had usually been that way when Sherlock dragged him to the Yard to annoy Greg. Then, Anderson and Donovan were too busy harassing the consulting detective and Lestrade was too busy trying to keep up with Sherlock's rapid deductions. But Sherlock had always turned to ask John for confirmation or to explain some minor point or simply to give John that look, the one that said we're the only ones who really know what's going on here. Months later, no one knows how to act around John because he isn't getting better, and he feels like a nuisance.

Donovan chooses that moment to stick her head into Lestrade's office, looking flushed and winded. 

"Just heard back about Alexander. He's been spotted hiding out in Tottenham off Creighton Road."

Lestrade looks back to John again as he abandons the paperwork to jump up and grab his coat. "Do you have your gun with you?"

"Yes." John rarely leaves the flat without the Sig Sauer on him. It's a reminder of the good old days, back when he actually had to use it. The L106A1 would be useful if any of Moriarty's men decided to pay a visit, but two months after their leader had bled out on the roof of Bart's, John doubts any of them are very interested in coming after him. Sherlock and Moriarty are both gone, and his occasional involvement in Yard cases has been restricted to research and medical consultation. At least it's something to do, since he doesn't really feel like going to the clinic and attempting to bolster any patients' spirits.

"You can't seriously be thinking of letting _him_ tag along on an arrest! He's still just a civilian, for god's sake. And that gun's illegal!" Anderson splutters. Donovan nods in agreement, adding, "Maybe this isn't such a good idea, sir."

She looks over to John almost apologetically. Despite her glee at Sherlock's fate, she's been mostly civil and almost respectful of John's loss, seeming to understand what Sherlock meant to John even if she clearly thought the bond rather one-sided. She had always been just a bit more tolerable than Anderson, though heaven knows what she saw in the man. 

"It's just that you don't, well, seem very up for it."

"Well, he's a better shot than either of you are. Let's go, John." He strides out of the office with John, Donovan quietly grumbling but stepping quickly to keep up.

 

 

Of course, the route they take would take them past a cemetery. John ignores it and the looks from Donovan and Lestrade, instead staring forward so intensely he thinks he might strain something. They park the unmarked car just past the intersection of White Hart Lane and Creighton. When he opens his door, he immediately turns up his coat collar; by now, what had started as yet another sunny day has turned cold and cloudy, a portent of a harsh winter to come.

"All right, backup's on call if we need it, but I'd rather keep this quiet since God knows we're up here every other week. Sergeant Donovan, I want you to go with John to check out the shacks behind that row of houses - he's probably hiding out back there since it's closed in by the houses and the cemetery. I'll check this side."

They nod and start off, walking quickly. The streets are quiet, as usual for a Monday afternoon, but it's not somewhere anyone would choose to linger. In fact, John thinks, it was probably more typical to see someone running down the cracked sidewalk. Trash blows alongside them as they make their way to a service entrance for the cemetery and draw their guns.

Mycroft certainly had not been overestimating the danger of apprehending Alexander if the man decided to fight. John had read the autopsy report, seen photos of the damage to his wife's body when she had decided to reveal information to one of her husband's competitors. But Lestrade had also been right: an obvious police presence in this stretch of Tottenham would drive Alexander underground. If they were lucky, they would surprise him. If not, backup was only minutes away.

He motions to Donovan to take the first row of shacks and she nods, tapping her cell phone where it rests in her pocket to remind him to call if he needs. John nods in return and makes his way quietly but swiftly back to the second row of cobbled-together sheds. It had been too long since the last time he had done this, run down a suspect in some back alley, gun drawn and heart pounding. He can feel the blood moving through his veins and his lungs fill with the burn of cold air, fighting back some of the numbness.

This was what had appealed to him about war: the adrenaline and the alertness and the hint of fear that whatever was coming he might not make it through…but if he did, his opponent certainly wouldn't. Of course, here the rules are different, but Sherlock had shown him the battlefield underneath the comparatively civilised veneer of London, and John still craves what he could only call the passion of the battlefield. Now even his anguish has begun to fade around the edges, becoming staler as time passes and any return to normalcy (was there such a thing in a world that had once contained Sherlock Holmes?) continues to evade him.

John waits briefly outside of each structure, listening for the slight rustles and murmurs that would indicate the shack is occupied. The only noises that meet him as he works his way from building to building, however, are the wind and the distant rush of traffic.

He has almost reached the end of the row when a crash, too quiet to be heard from the main road, echoes from the row Sally is searching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention in the first chapter where I got the name for this fic. "Run him like a blade/To and through the heart" is part of the lyrics from the song The Hollow by A Perfect Circle.
> 
> I had to do a bit of research for this chapter. Sherlockology (sherlockology.com) was incredibly useful for maps of Sherlock locations throughout London and information about John's gun. I also had some assistance from a former English professor who was not fazed in the slightest when I asked him, "Hey, where would be a good sketchy place in London for a member of organized crime to hide out from the police?"


	3. Chapter 3

John runs instantly toward the noise. It's possible Donovan has simply knocked something over, but his soldier instincts are screaming otherwise at him. The path in front of the sheds is abandoned. Not a good sign, since Donovan would have known to return outside to reassure him that the noise had been accidental. John creeps up to the first shed and pauses to listen for the slightest indication that the building is occupied. Hearing nothing, he moves to the next one, muscles tensed in anticipation.

As he creeps up to the small window to look through a gap in the grimy curtains, he catches a flash of movement from within. It's impossible to tell if the person inside is Donovan or Alexander, but the tinkling crash of glass tells John he can't risk waiting outside. 

He reaches for his mobile and texts _Backup_ one-handed to Lestrade, shoving it back into his pocket before he raises a leg to kick in the door with a splintering crack he hopes was the door and not his leg.

Sally has been thrown against the far wall, gun lost somewhere in the small, junk-filled space, by a massive dark-haired man John recognises as Alexander from his file. He lunges toward John, who raises his gun without hesitation but fires through the ceiling when Alexander's giant paw of a hand swats the gun upwards. 

He dodges the next fist and prepares to fire again, but Alexander reaches out to wrap a hand around John's and _squeezes_. John feels the popping of his joints when Alexander's hand begins to crush his and lets out a yell of pain as he drops the gun.

Behind them, Donovan scrambles to find her weapon as Alexander swings his other fist to uppercut John. He lands against the wall, wondering in a daze how many teeth he has left. Alexander manages to kick John's gun under a pile of debris and closes in on Donovan, who looks up in terror and scrambles to her feet unarmed. Now that the element of surprise is lost, Alexander seems to have no compunctions about attacking police officers and lifts her bodily as she struggles, throwing her to land next to John with a crack that sounds as if something (please be a table or a crate or anything but a body part, John thinks) has broken.

John struggles to make his way through the clutter over to Donovan while Alexander flees the shack. He can't let the man get away, not after all this, but he has to make sure Sally is still alive. A cursory exam proves that she is indeed still alive and breathing, and nothing seems permanently damaged. But there's no point in lingering to wait for her to return to consciousness, and he is already at a disadvantage by being unarmed. John takes a deep breath to steady himself before sprinting after Alexander.

He's almost to the end of the drive, headed toward a chain-link gate. John pushes himself to go faster, lungs already burning after too many days of inactivity and too many sleepless nights. Everything around him is forgotten as he moves; nothing is as important in that moment as catching up to the man who has reached the gate and is now slipping through the opening towards freedom. Nothing else exists besides John's feet smashing into the gravel and the burn in his lungs and the adrenaline singing through his veins…and, most importantly, the target.

The gate swings open with a crash as he bursts through into the cemetery they had passed in the car. It's massive, row upon row of tombstones stretching into the distance. The wind whips past him as he forces his screaming muscles to keep moving, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and the ache in his hand. Alexander is slower now, losing speed as exhaustion set in.

John is almost close enough to touch him, closer, so close…He reaches for Alexander, tackling the man to the gravel path. But Alexander still resists, shoving John away and standing to run. John catches his ankles and pulls him back down, wishing he had had time to grab his gun. 

He doesn't quite manage to bite back a shout of pain as Alexander's flailing feet connect with his injured hand, but he tightens the grip of his other hand, refusing to let go.

They had struggled for a minute or two when, suddenly, Alexander turns and catches hold of John by the throat. He climbs to his feet and swings John to smash into the nearest tombstone with a sickening crack of bone on granite, hands tightening even as blood begins instantly to pour from John's head and his vision rapidly fades. John's fingers scrabble wildly against Alexander's in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure, but he has spent all of his energy in the chase and has nowhere near the strength to push the massive hands away.

So this would be it. John Hamish Watson, former army captain and former doctor and former companion and friend to the great Sherlock Holmes, was going to gasp his last in a neglected cemetery in one of the worst parts of London. He realises through the fog that every role he had ever played had turned 'former' long before this moment; it had been two years since the army now — and two months since Sherlock that seemed much, much longer. It had been more than Sherlock that John had lost that day. He had been broken and never quite properly patched back together, with no purpose to pursue, back to terror-filled nights and long, empty days. Too tired and too old to save himself.

At least now, John thinks, he won't have to put up with the pity. It's the condescension about it that galls him the most. He can picture it: Anderson's bloody smug face turning to Donovan at his funeral with an I-told-you-so plastered across his features. Lestrade and Mycroft shaking their heads sadly as they muttered about what a loss to the world his death was before they turned away and went back to business, as if he didn't even _matter_. 

They expect him to die, to curl up and submit to the darkness because that's what his grief is all about, slowly becoming a weaker version of himself until he is the creature that Mrs. Hudson tuts over with a sadness that is so _fucking_ predictable and trite.

A wave of rage roars to life within him, akin to the tendrils of anger that he had felt but so much stronger - unlike anything he's felt in years. This was the fury of watching his men die in the choking heat of the desert as he sat and watched; this was the tide of wrath that he had been unable to feel at Moriarty for killing his best friend - the person he cared for more than anyone in the world - because of raw, numbing shock; this was the anger he had suppressed at Sherlock for leaping off St. Bart's even knowing that when he died, John's heart would die as well…but John had been able to do _nothing_. He is sick of sitting back and letting the world push him from heartache to heartache and waiting for the loss that would finally destroy him, because it has arrived and no one expects him to survive.

This is white-hot, potent rage the likes of which John has felt only a handful of times in his life, and it surges through his veins so strongly he can almost hear it crackle. It's like being electrocuted: his body writhes as he fights for consciousness with renewed vigour. But it is not only the need to survive that fuels his struggle any longer. Now hatred courses alongside adrenaline: hatred for the man who holds his throat but also for those who think him weak and broken and inferior.

He seizes the nearest chunk of tombstone that lays scattered on the ground beside him and, with a furious swing, bashes it into Alexander's face. The man releases him instantly, staggering back, but John lunges forward to slam the stone into Alexander's face again. Blood pours from the man's nose, but John's arm moves with rapidly vicious intent. Again and again, he pummels Alexander's face and head with the stone so many times that by the time the adrenaline has faded enough for his consciousness to fade from his injuries, John is spattered with pieces of gore and streaks of blood from Alexander's caved-in skull.

By the time Lestrade reaches them, John has blacked out, limbs askew, next to Alexander's remains in a puddle of blood that has already begun to cool.

 

 

After many years at the Yard, Lestrade had known to call an ambulance as a precaution as soon as he had received John's text. Alexander's body had been quickly zipped out of sight within a black bag while paramedics strapped John to a gurney and carefully loaded him into the vehicle. The DI had clamoured into the back of the ambulance to ride with John, whose breathing is shallow as he remains unconscious. 

While the crew begins an IV drip and wipes down John's blood-soiled skin, Lestrade wipes his face with his hand, still in shock at the tableau that had met his eyes as he had arrived in the cemetery. He won't know what had happened until he is able to talk to John, but the image of what was left of Alexander's face isn't going to leave Lestrade's mind anytime soon.

A minute or two later, John murmurs something and his eyes flicker under their lids, startling Lestrade out of his reverie. He repeats John's name loudly until the man's eyes roll open and come to rest on him, wide and frenzied.

"John, do you know who I am?"

Lestrade watches as John lifts his head slightly and struggles to focus on his face. "Greg. Where'm I?"

"You're in an ambulance, on the way to hospital. Focus, John. I need you to tell me what happened with Alexander."

"I killed him." John is silent after his declaration for a handful of moments before a quiet giggle of mirth escapes him that sends chills up Lestrade's spine. He opens his mouth to speak, but John falls back with a small, delirious smile on his lips as unconsciousness claims him again, leaving Greg to wonder what the fuck he just witnessed.


	4. Chapter 4

A chime from his mobile startles John into consciousness. He is in bed under cool, starched sheets, listening to the quiet beeping of a heart monitor. Hospital, then. His head and throat throb in time with the sound of the machine. Jesus, his throat feels crushed; breathing feels like swallowing shards of glass garnished with razor blades. 

He reaches up to gingerly explore what feels like a square of gauze taped to the back of his head and sees that his right hand has been bundled into a brace. John grabs his phone off the table beside his bed with his uninjured hand and opens the message:

_Glad you're awake. Will be stopping by soon to check in on you — Mycroft_  


His reply is short: _No, you won't._ He is no mood to deal with Mycroft's pompous disdain and certainly not up for the mental challenge of interacting with the man, having only just been able to discern (deduce? no, don't go down that path) where he is by the label attached to his bedside table at eye level: _Property of North Middlesex University Hospital_. He ignores Mycroft's reply and focuses on raising his bed, wincing in pain as the movement jolts sore muscles in his back.

John has just settled as comfortably as he can when the door opens. Lestrade and a nurse enter, the former claiming the room's visitor chair while the latter begins checking John's chart with a practised studiousness.

"Glad to see you awake. You've been out all night - we were starting to worry about you." Lestrade cracks a small smile that seems less cheerful than it should be.

"Is Sally all right?" He sounds like a chain smoker.

"Yeah, she woke up right after the paramedics showed up. Minor concussion and a few cuts and bruises." He scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs. "Look, John, I know you need at least a few days to recover, but you're going to need to come down to the Yard to make a statement."

A horrified look crosses his face. "Wait, you do remember what happened, right?"

John nods shallowly, trying not to move. "Yeah, I do. But until then, I don't want to talk about it."

He remembers everything, but he'll think about what had happened later. Right now, he needs to focus on ignoring the severe pain plaguing him. The nurse notices his grimace and hands him a paper cup of water that feels heavenly on the bruised tissue of his oesophagus as he drinks it in small sips.

He whispers an inconsequential reply when she introduces herself and leans down to shine her penlight into his eyes. Her name starts with a T. He can't bring himself to care enough to listen to the rest of it, only focusing again on her voice when she offers him a shot of morphine. That is definitely of interest at the moment.

"Hopefully this will start to kick in soon, Dr. Watson. The good news is you only have a minor concussion, which is very lucky for you. We're going to want to keep you another day and do a few scans to make sure nothing's permanently damaged. After that, at least a few days of bed rest and a week of taking it easy - and you'll want to leave off any intense physical activity."

She turns to look at Lestrade, who looks as if he's about to protest but has thought better of it. "We'll give you a prescription for some pain medication, and you'll need to schedule a follow-up, as I'm sure you know."

He nods again, and she leaves them after another stern look at Lestrade. "Press the call button if you need assistance. And not too much talking, either."

An uncomfortable silence stretches between them in her absence. Lestrade is watching him carefully, body unusually tense as if expecting him to do something startling. It isn't until John blinks his eyes open that he realises he must have dozed; the morphine is already working. Greg is at the door, hand poised to grasp the handle, but he turns when John shifts limbs that are feeling more leaden by the minute.

"Tell Mycroft I don't want to see him. I'll see you when..." he pauses for a wheezing breath, "…visit the Yard."

Lestrade nods, still with the odd frown on his face. John would find that interesting if he wasn't moments from returning to sleep. "I'll, ah, do my best to keep him away. Get some sleep, and I'll call you."

John doesn't remember him leaving.

 

 

God damn Mycroft.

He hasn't found any bugs in his flat yet, but the obnoxious arse is probably watching him through his street cameras. He can feel the eyes on him, boring holes into his back whenever he leaves the flat for brief walks to exercise his still-sore body. Once he had thought someone was following him; the flash of a coat disappearing down an alleyway at the corner of his vision had inspired him to turn back, but the narrow space was abandoned when he reached it.

Two similar incidents later, he's ready to text Mycroft and tell him where to stick his cameras, but since Mycroft has limited their communication to a few brief text conversations, he refrains. The nagging itch of being watched keeps him inside more often than he likes, even though he had never really paid the cameras much attention when they had appeared in the flat and the surrounding area shortly after he moved to Baker Street. He watches crap telly and sleeps with the aid of perhaps a few too many pain pills and drinks oceans of tea. It's almost as if he had never gone with Lestrade to Tottenham, except for the text from Greg about coming down to the Yard at the beginning of the next week.

When he sleeps, he dreams of killing Alexander. His medicine-fogged brain forgets that he should be horrified; instead, in his dreams, he walks away from the body smiling. John wakes remembering only pieces of the dreams but feeling more rested than he has in months…yet still feeling just as purposeless. He highly doubts that he'll be included on the next police raid, and the sickening emptiness threatens to return and erase whatever it is he's feeling now - a small flicker of something that refuses to leave, making him restless and anxious.

After too many days cooped up, it's almost a relief to make the trip to the Yard to finally give his statement. Eyes flick to his bruised throat, covered with greenish, healing bruises, and his hand in its brace, but no one asks him what happened; instead they seem determined to ignore him. Donovan approaches him as he navigates the busy space, but thankfully Anderson is nowhere to be seen.

Sally nods when she reaches him and clears her throat. "The Detective Inspector is waiting in his office. But I want to say, uh, thanks. For, you know."

"You're welcome." He moves past her to knock at Lestrade's door. This time, there are no pastries in sight, only Lestrade gathering up some files and standing to meet him at the door. He seems nervous, that strange caution still on his features, and the bags under his eyes are more prominent than usual.

"The, uh, Detective Chief Inspector and the Detective Superintendent are meeting us downstairs. But don't worry, it's just procedure."

John highly doubts that, since for all the other criminal cases he and Sherlock had helped with, not once had they had to explain themselves to Lestrade's higher-ups. Then again, the cases usually concluded with a lot less bloodshed. His building annoyance multiplies when a text comes through from an unfamiliar number:

_A proposition for you. Be seeing you soon._  


He pulls up Mycroft's number and sends back another short but anatomically crude reply as he follows Lestrade to the next lowest floor. He hasn't seen much of the rest of the Yard before, but the sea of Plexiglass panes and ergonomic black desk chairs continues here. Lestrade stops him just outside Conference Room B and places a hand on John's shoulder.

"Look, we haven't really talked about what happened, but just, you know, keep it straightforward. He ran, he attacked you, you defended yourself, er, a little too enthusiastically. You'll be fine."

"Thanks." Lestrade pats his shoulder and gives him a small, worried smile before raising his hand to knock.

 

 

Well, things have gotten interesting again for the second most dangerous man in London. John Watson's scuffle with Ned Alexander has given Sebastian Moran just enough time to set up his surveillance. Sherlock Holmes is dead and buried, and Jim along with him, but John Watson is still very much alive. Although not for much longer. Maybe.

It would be nice to train that scope on Watson's fucking face and be allowed to pull the trigger this time. Even after he had watched Holmes splatter on the pavement like a blood balloon, he had been tempted to put a bullet through the good doctor's head.

But rules are rules, Jim said, had to play by the rules because we make the rules. _Rules are rules, Sebby, can't go chaaaanging them all over the place or we'd have complete anarchy. Eventually, eventually, Sebastian._ So he'd left Watson alone, but he's getting bored of playing by the rules. Jim is dead because of Sherlock Holmes, and killing Watson would be like watching Holmes die all over again. Would be a shame to kill another military man, but needs must.

 _Sherlock has his pet doctor, and I have you, Seb_ , Jim had told him. Holmes had taken Jim from him, so it was only fair to take away Watson too. Rage speeds through his veins when he pictures the bastard crying at Holmes' grave when he had had to be content with stealing Jim's tie and phone from the body on the rooftop. By now the tie is a bit grimy and he still has yet to figure out how to gain access to most of the data on the phone, but Jim had given him a lovely going-away present: control of the network. A network which has shrunk since Jim's death but is still capable of keeping tabs on Johnny.

He misses Jim. He's bored without Jim. When Jim was around, Sebastian could play a part in his games with him and soak up the terror and the blood and be full and happy. Now he's just empty and bored, and if he starts picking off homeless people one by one from the rooftops of abandoned buildings again someone will notice.

But now there's something new, something interesting. He replays the footage of John ( _Johnny john John_ ) in the cemetery with a stone in his hand and a crazed look in his eye, and maybe he'll let Watson live just a bit longer if he is going to be this much fun.

With Jim gone, Seb could really use a new friend.

 

 

Two bland-looking men John assumes are the Detective Chief Inspector and the Detective Superintendent are seated on the far side of the table across from two empty, uncomfortable looking plastic chairs. One has a stack of paperwork in front of him that he shuffles into order as John and Lestrade sit down.

"Mister Watson, I'm Detective Superintendent Bagley and this is Detective Chief Inspector Ogilvie. I'm sure you're well aware why you're here. We'd like to get started."

John doesn't bother correcting them about his title. Bagley has lines on his face that indicate an aversion to smiling, and Ogilvie is pencil-thin and dour. John manages to resist a smirk at the thought of what Sherlock would have made of them, already exuding an air of pomposity and disdain. Then again, they had needed Sherlock to keep their solve rate buoyed, whereas to them John is simply a liability without any worthwhile benefits…even though, to be fair, he did stop Alexander. With a very large chunk of rock.

This time, he brings a hand to his mouth to cover his small smile, hiding the grin by wiping his mouth. It won't do to get them riled up; they're probably the type who like to abuse their power and throw people in a cell for a few days for the hell of it.

"Mister Watson, can you take us through your actions on this past Monday, beginning with your arrival at Detective Inspector Lestrade's office?"

John really tries to be patient, he does. He begins his story but is almost instantly interrupted by Bagley. "Detective Inspector, were you aware that Mister Watson was in possession of an illegal firearm?"

Lestrade looks completely caught off-guard. "I, er—yes, I knew John had a gun."

Ogilvie shuffles through his notes. "We've spoken with one of your subordinates, a Mr. Anderson, who informed us that he cautioned you Mister Watson's firearm was unregistered. And yet you proceeded to allow him to accompany you to Alexander's location?"

"Well, he was in the military and has helped out on a few cases before and the urgency of the situation—"

John listens to Lestrade flounder for an excuse as the pilot light of rage flickers stronger deep in his gut. Jesus, Lestrade doesn't deserve to be reamed out over this, and of _course_ Anderson would have volunteered any and all information to see John thrown out of the Yard and perhaps into prison, that fuck. He clenches his fist under the table and grits his teeth as they continue to question Lestrade. The flame of anger grows until he can't keep himself from interrupting.

"Excuse me, but I really think this has more to do with me than the Detective Inspector."

Lestrade looks relieved as three sets of eyes turn back to focus on John. "Mister Watson—"

"—it's Doctor Watson, actually."

Bagley actually sniffs at his correction, and now John can feel the crackle and heat of his annoyance.

"Well, then, Doctor Watson, why don't you explain to us why you felt the need to repeatedly attack Ned Alexander rather than attempting to subdue him to a state where he could be brought into custody and perhaps provided valuable information on his crime syndicate?"

John forms and speaks some sort of answer, placating bullshit that will keep him out of prison but come nowhere close to the truth. He doesn't owe either of these men the truth: that he couldn't stop at first and then _didn't want to stop_ , and now replaying the scene in his head makes him realise that the only time he's felt alive in _two months_ was when he was fighting for his life. No, that's not even it. It wasn't saving himself or stopping a criminal that had brought back to him a spark of life that had yet to be extinguished in the week since its arrival.

It had been watching the life slip from Alexander's body with each blow. Watching insurgents that had gunned down his men fall under _his_ gun. Watching the blood pool underneath them ( _him_ ) as he took their lives. Feeling the power or simply just being able to feel something in the midst of a choking vortex of nothing that gagged him more than Alexander's hands.

He wonders if the others can read this epiphany in his face — if they know that the honourable, loyal companion John H. Watson has just discovered that he relishes killing a man for no other reason than because he _could_. John knows there's something wrong with this, but he could really care less right now, in this room with these men.

After he finishes his testimony, Ogilvie and Bagley leave them in the room alone for a moment. Lestrade sighs and rubs at his eyes with his hand. "Christ, this whole thing is a mess. Mycroft said he would see what he could do, but who the hell knows what that means with him?" He falls silent as the door opens and the chief inspector and superintendent take their seats again.

"Doctor Watson, I don't think I need to tell either you or the Detective Inspector that your involvement on any future cases is absolutely forbidden. Scotland Yard cannot afford any more incidents like one."

Bagley clears his throat and glances at Ogilvie before continuing. "We have, however, received word that your firearm has been registered, so you will be allowed to retain it. We have also been informed that it would be, ah, imprudent to seek any retributive action against yourself or the detective inspector, as the operation did result in an outcome preferable to Alexander's escape, considering his threat level."

Lestrade looks relieved, despite being given another sheaf of paperwork to fill out. They make their way back to his office, where he suddenly hugs John. "Thank Christ. No, sod that, thank Mycroft. I thought one of us was going to be chucked in prison. I'm honestly glad to have forms. We should go out for that pint to celebrate."

"I'm really not feeling up to it. Besides, you've got forms." He offers a small, weak smile.

Lestrade grins at him, the first real smile the man's given him in a long time. "Sure, sure, I know you're probably exhausted. Some other time, yeah?"

He sees Sally again on his way out, who looks a bit more subdued now that Anderson is lurking. The pasty-faced fuck starts to approach John, who escapes before Anderson can open his mouth. John's really not sure what he would do if Anderson talked to him right now, but he has a feeling Anderson wouldn't want to find out.

The air feels cool and clean as he leaves the building and makes his way towards the tube station. His hand has started throbbing, so he's too busy adjusting the straps on his brace to see the man who yanks him into an alley and covers his face with a hood before bundling him into a vehicle.


	5. Chapter 5

His kidnappers are surprisingly gentle, careful of his hand and other remaining injuries. Still, his body tenses under the hands that grip his arms, because while Mycroft is fond of unexpected visits, his invitations for meetings are just that: suggestions tainted by command. This is something different and wholly more hostile. He can feel the vibrations of the wheels moving over the pavement and hear the breathing of the men sitting next to him (he’s pretty sure they’re men), but he knows he’s missing a thousand different clues that could tell him who’s kidnapped him and where they’re headed and all the other answers that Sherlock would already have deduced. He’d use his skills to help John, just as he had a dozen times before, only this time John’s on his own. No one will be looking for him for a day at least. John should probably be a bit more frightened, but after the Alexander incident and the interrogation at the Yard, he’s just spectacularly annoyed.

He can hear the crunch of gravel under the tyres as the vehicle slows and stops. Arms yank him out the door again, and he’s being marched forward. They pass through two doors on their walk (he can tell by the pauses, the shift in the air, and the slight squeak of hinges) before they stop him and push him down to sit in a chair. His good arm is cuffed to the chair, and then his hood is removed, revealing a dim, large, and nondescript room. It could be an office building or it could be a warehouse; John has no way of knowing if he’s even still in London, having lost track of time in his reverie on the way. Not too smart. 

Even in the dim light, his eyes take a few moments to adjust. He’s still blinking when the door opens and shuts rapidly before he can glimpse anything beyond it, his captor leaving as a man about Mycroft’s height but far more solid enters. He’s wearing dark sunglasses and dressed all in black, his hair dishwater brown and thinning. Even without the sunglasses, John would recognise the man’s face from Lestrade’s files. 

Marcus Solomon is one of England’s top crime lords. He’s been in and out of court a dozen times alongside his brother, Liam. The Solomon Six are infamous for everything from drug and arms trafficking to extortion and bribery. They’re usually only in the papers when another body bearing telltale the marks of gang involvement surfaces in some polluted backwater or trash-filled alley, Marcus always in his sunglasses and Liam with a cocky grin for the cameras. Mycroft hadn’t been lying about the danger when he warned John; with their Colombian cartel ties, the Six controlled a large portion of the illegal activity in London.

Solomon takes a seat in another chair, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his legs and clasp his hands. When he finally removes his sunglasses, his eyes are beady, cold, and calculating.

“Doctor Watson, would you like to tell me why you decided to kill one of my associates?”

So they’re going to get down to business right away then. Solomon’s probably busy, life of a syndicate boss and all that. “It had a lot to do with him trying to strangle me.”

John’s a bit taken aback when, instead of cuffing him across the face or simply shooting him, Solomon just smiles a crooked grin. “Tough as nails. You’re probably wondering how I know about Ned, but that’s not really important. The important part of this information, at least for you, is what I plan to do about it.”

He can feel his body begin to tense up in anticipation of a fight, the thrill and adrenaline returning. Whatever Solomon sees in John’s response makes him lean forward in avid interest, eyes shining.

“See, there it is. You’re a doctor, you work with the cops, and yet here you are with my man’s blood on your hands and that look on your face like you’re ready to jump over here and tear my fuckin’ heart out.”

John freezes in confusion, heart still pounding. “What?”

“You know who I am, Dr. Watson, you know what I do, so don’t play dumb. You beat one of my men to death with a fuckin’ rock. I watched a video of you killing Ned, and you looked like Christmas came early. Not the way a guy working with the police usually acts chasing down a suspect, I don’t think.”

John’s mind hasn’t caught up yet, but his body is already reacting to the implication behind Solomon’s words.

“So I’m going to offer you a choice: you come work for me. Taking care of people that I need taken care of, threatened, killed, whatever I need. I’ll pay you, of course, since I’m sure the Yard don’t. Do it, and I don’t gut you and leave you as a message for the Yardies. Or you can go home and live out your last few days before I come for you and do just that. Up to you.”

There it is. A choice. He’s surprised to be getting one, but not as surprised as he should be. But is it really a choice? He can’t just become a goddamn hitman, he’s a retired soldier and almost-detective and he works (worked, he reminds himself) with the bloody Yard. How long would it be before he’d be hauled back in to explain once some profiler is onto him? How long before Mycroft catches him on some surveillance feed and turns him in? 

And then he realises: he’s actually considering it. Not how to get out of doing it but how to pull it off. He sucks in a deep breath and exhales, trying to clear his mind and come up with the willpower to refuse, to be that heroic, loyal man everyone believes him to be. Instead, what comes out is a sharp exhale. “How long do I have to decide?”

When Solomon smiles, it’s like staring down a shark, all teeth and shining, predatory eyes. “I’ll give you two days to make up your mind.”

Yet again, he’s surprised by Solomon. “Really.”

“What, you going to try and turn me in to the Yard, pull off a sting or something? I don’t think so. You’d have to explain why you didn’t turn me down, and then there’s the tiny problem of the Yard not being able to tell their arse from their elbow. You don’t even know where the fuck you are right now. I’ll give you two days, and then I’ll find you tomorrow at midnight and get my answer. You know why?”

John just stares at him, thin-lipped.

“Because, Dr. Watson, you’re not going to say yes because you need to. You’re going to say yes because you want to.”

 

 

It’s a testament to Solomon’s influence in London that Mycroft isn’t blowing up John’s phone with texts and missed calls as soon as he’s dropped at the kerb outside of his flat. He realises belatedly that it hadn’t been Mycroft texting him earlier but smiles slightly at the thought of Mycroft’s face at his reply.

The hallway is quiet. Mrs. Hudson must be out shopping or next door with Mrs. Turner. He’s only been gone for about an hour since leaving the Yard, but long shadows are already starting to creep across the floor of 221B. It’s a drowsy afternoon, but he can still feel the crackle of adrenaline in his veins. 

He has two days.

He hangs up his coat, toes off his shoes and socks, and pads barefoot to collapse into his armchair. There are bullet holes tracing a smiley face in the wall and a creased leather chair across from him. John hadn’t been able to bring himself to shove it into Sherlock’s room amid all the boxes, so now it sits empty and finely layered with two months’ dust.

Sherlock Holmes. In all the time they’d known each other, John had never thought to ask Sherlock’s middle name. Maybe he hadn’t had one. Maybe he was just Sherlock “Consulting Detective” Holmes.

If he closes his eyes, John could imagine Sherlock crouching in the chair, legs splayed, forearms resting atop his thighs as he perches like a giant bloody vulture, leaning forward with intensity as he speaks, eyes bright in excitement at the thrill of a case. But now it’s disappointment that fills this imaginary Sherlock’s eyes, barely perceptible even John. Sherlock can see his struggle and condemns him for it, the way he had never done when he was alive and thought John was being idiotic or slow or blind to the facts right in front of his nose.

He is looking at John the way he had looked at him in the pool, when John had stepped out from the changing booth and faced Sherlock’s shock and hurt. Sherlock had watched as though John had betrayed him, and it still made his heart ache, because John had betrayed him - had doubted Sherlock for only a moment - and then Sherlock had left him.

His eyes fly open as he shouts at the empty chair, “What do you want from me?!” Because that’s what all this is about. Sherlock. It has been and it will be about Sherlock, what Sherlock thinks of him. But the chair remains empty, because Sherlock is still slowly decomposing under his tombstone, and the daylight of one of his two days to decide is already almost gone.

The floorboards creak as John jumps up to pace restlessly, barefoot without the concern of a stray needle of some sort embedding itself in the soft flesh of his foot. He turns at the couch and strides back to the kitchen, back and forth in a tense, rapid pattern. The numbness has receded again, this time overwhelmed by panic and anger and sadness and everything he hasn’t been feeling. It’s as if the abyss is beckoning, and if he steps over the edge, he’ll be swallowed again by grief. He continues to move, hoping to fend it off, but only feeling more anxious.

He stops treading and grabs his coat instead, yanking it back on as he clatters down the stairs, desperate to be anywhere but here, where Sherlock’s ghost haunts him with blood-streaked, saddened eyes that still steal his breath away.

As he’s opening the door, he almost runs into Mrs. Hudson, who takes one look at his face and exclaims, “John! What happened?”

He can’t tell her, doesn’t want to, tries to remain calm, but can’t stop himself from choking out, “Damn it, Mrs. Hudson, just let me be!” and pushing past her to stride down the pavement.

The streets are slowly emptying as the commuters abandon them for families and warm dinners, but John doesn’t stop walking, even when the street lamps come on and the chill descends in earnest. He’s shivering, even with his collar turned up, and his hand aches with the dull, throbbing pain of bruised bone, but even then, he still walks. He doesn’t know where he’s going and, quite frankly, doesn’t care. His mind is blank and turbulent and he can feel the minutes counting down and still doesn’t know what answer he’s going to give.

A beep from his mobile startles him.

  
_John, you’re hiding something from me. I’ll stay away if you wish, but come to me first if you’re in danger. — Mycroft_  


He knows. Mycroft knows already, and there’s nothing John can do. Until he rereads the text and realises that Mycroft doesn’t know. He’s guessing at shadows; John must have disappeared from his far-reaching surveillance network for an hour or two earlier, and he’s disturbed that there are indeed those who can avoid his gaze when they want to hide. He barks out a humourless laugh; Mycroft must be slipping if two criminals can outmanoeuvre him in such a short span of time.

If he can disappear for an hour once, what’s to prevent him from doing it again?

If the most powerful man in London can’t find him and stop him, who would?

Chimes sound out midnight. He has twenty-four hours left to decide. He looks around for a street sign but soon gives up, wandering further until the street lights are closer together and there is actually traffic and he can flag down a cab to take him home. He’d be surprised by how far he managed to walk, but there are more important things on his mind and he’s concentrating on not combusting into a million tiny particles.

No one is waiting for him at the flat. Sherlock’s chair is still empty, dust still undisturbed.

He tries to pretend it’s just another night at the flat and makes tea, feeling lightheaded, as if something in him is trying to depart from his body. He drinks half a cup before giving up and heading for the shower, where he practically scalds himself and tries not to think about Sherlock and that damning look, but what’s to stop him, really? The one person he really cared about sacrificed himself to save him, and he might throw all that away because the only thing that might the gaping void away is sending someone else in his place.

It’s near two when he pulls himself out of the steam-filled bathroom to collapse into bed, the frantic wide-eyed feeling still trying to claw its way out of his chest. He’s going to sleep as much as he can, and he’s going to forget that he has to kill or be killed starting in hours that are far too quickly escaping, and he’s not going to dream of anything, not the war and not Harry telling him everything he’s done wrong, and he’s bloody well not going to think of Sherlock.

Except that he does…and not the Sherlock of the condemning, disappointed, concerned eyes. This is the Sherlock John hasn’t thought of in months, the Sherlock he dreamed about while Sherlock was still alive, the one who stood just a bit too close and whose eyes were instead filled with the kind of intense curiosity that sent shivers down John’s spine that he had tried so hard to hide.

His back is fighting to arch off the bed, and the sheets are twisting around him, and he’s given up trying to not to imagine those lush lips on his neck. He gives in just as he had all those times when Sherlock kept him up playing violin at three in the morning or when he had come in at two after a date and listened for long minutes to make sure Sherlock was asleep. He doesn’t want to want this, especially now that even the barest chance is gone, but he’s too exhausted from fighting too much, and he’s too fucking shattered to care.

His hand plunges under the sheets and he strokes himself as slowly as he can stand, everything that’s been tormenting him combining into a toxic cocktail that sends heated lust surging through his body. Imagining Sherlock in the living room earlier opened the floodgates, and now he can picture the tall figure striding towards him, pinning him roughly against the wall, pale eyes aflame as his lips meet John’s in a bruising kiss before trailing down to John’s neck. John can feel the brush of those lips as Sherlock whispers the filthiest things John has ever heard into John’s ear. Because as many times as Sherlock had levelled that wide-eyed, tender look at him, John’s not a man for tenderness, at least not anymore.

John’s hand moves faster, rougher over himself as his other hand reaches down to cup his balls. His heart is racing as he pictures Sherlock pliant and gasping beneath him, and he comes with a shout, his vision searing white as he spills over his shaking hands.

He’s so exhausted he can barely move. He doesn’t want to think about what he’s just done, or about the decision he still has to make, or any of it. He lets sleep finally take him, the last thought in his mind of Sherlock’s grey-blue eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goooooood. This chapter was incredibly difficult to write, in terms of just finding the time to sit down and actually put words together between all the personal happenings in my life (new job, finally got my license, etc.) It was also a very emotional chapter, character-wise, and I wanted to take my time and do it justice. The next chapter will definitely not take as long! For anyone interested, I based the Solomon Six off of the Clerkenwell crime syndicate, based on information I found on Wikipedia.
> 
> Extra-special thanks to my friend Simon for feedback and fangirling and making sure I finished this chapter. Thank you again for reading and for all of your support via PM and reviews!


	6. Chapter 6

His hood is removed to reveal the same dark room he had been brought to two days before. Solomon is already sitting in front of him, waiting for his answer.

He was right. John had had a choice, just as he had so many times before, but he really hadn’t needed one. He would have said yes either way, this time.

Solomon’s eyes glisten with glee as he slips his sunglasses back on and stands, offering his hand to John. John hesitates for a moment, contemplates breaking the man’s hand to wipe the smirk away, and meets Solomon’s left hand with his own. It’s the wrong hand, since his right is still bundled up and healing, but there really isn’t a proper hand, he thinks, for agreeing to kill.

“Welcome to the team, Johnny boy. I’ll be calling you by the end of the week with your first assignment, after you get that hand checked on. Jump right in, right?”

He can practically hear the wink behind Solomon’s shades, like the man thinks they’ve suddenly become best friends. John’s head aches, and he’s trying not to think about what he’s just agreed to do.

“Take me home,” he manages to say, anger and sheer exhaustion threatening to break his voice.

“Anything you say, Johnny.” The last thing he sees is Solomon’s wide, toothy grin before the hood is replaced and he is unceremoniously led back to the car. John isn’t surprised; if he were Solomon, he wouldn’t trust him either.

When he is finally deposited outside of 221, it’s as if the past two days never happened…but of course they did. He doesn’t want to be here again. What if he sells the flat, moves away, leaves London? The thought sends an icy shock through him as he climbs up the steps. It’s past one, but his mind won’t give in and let him rest, remembering what he had done in his bed the night before. His feet try to take him up to his bedroom, his body drowsy with stress and diminishing adrenaline, but at the last moment they turn and suddenly he’s at another door.

When he flips the light switch, Sherlock’s room is suddenly illuminated by soft, golden light from the antique lamp on the bedside table. There seem to be fewer boxes than he remembered, all piled at the foot of the bed. The few boxes, a bed stripped and left empty, and the closet’s contents are all that remain. John closes the door softly behind him and pads quietly to the armoire, opening the door to run his hands along the hanging suit jackets and shirts. The purple one, Sherlock’s favourite, is missing, rotting below the earth with its owner, but the dove-grey and black ones, among others, are still here. John selects a jacket at random and pulls it on. The waist is too trim and the arms too long, and when he catches his reflection in the vanity mirror on the dresser, he responds with a wry, humourless grin at himself. He looks like a child playing dress-up in some adult’s clothes, too short and podgy for an expensive bespoke wardrobe. But if he has the sleeves taken in and the waist let out, leaving the rest of the jacket unfashionably long…

He replaces the jacket but pulls the trousers and shirts out to pile on the bed. No tailor could work enough magic to make those fit. He could donate them to some charity - what charity wouldn’t be ecstatic to receive designer clothing - but the thought of anyone else in Sherlock’s clothes repulses him. Soon Sherlock’s shoes are added to the pile, along with the rest of his clothes, except for a few t-shirts and pyjama bottoms and, of course, the blue dressing gown.

A waft of Sherlock’s cologne, released from some long-undisturbed fold of cloth, reaches his nose and his gut clenches. He drops the garment he’s holding and heads for the kitchen, where he finds the bottle of whiskey he had been trying to forget. Several sips later, his legs steady, he returns to Sherlock’s room with the bottle to sit on the floor. He’s within arm’s reach of the boxes, labelled in Greg’s mostly legible scrawl. The first few he grabs are labelled _Books_ so he sets them aside and reaches for another, not bothering to check its contents before opening the lid.

It’s full of hundreds of scraps of paper covered in diagrams, little snatches of writing, even doodles, although those are mostly John’s. He had gathered up every single loose piece of paper, even the ones wedged in the pages of Sherlock’s books or, strangely enough, jammed between the walls and the baseboards, and dumped them into this box without looking too closely. Now he reads through a few dozen at random, eyes scanning the scribbles.

  
_Subject appears unaffected by citrus juice — try aggregate fruit (strawberry?)_   


  
_3/2/201/42/13/65/831_   


  
_I’ll be back at six. Please remember the milk, Sherlock — John_   


  
_Adipose capsule; renal medulla; interlobular artery_   


  


A shopping list of kidney parts? John swigs another mouthful of whiskey and tosses the notes back into the box. Reading the notes has reminded him that somewhere in the room is a box labelled _Journals_. He shifts aside more cartons until he finds it and, leaning back against the foot of the bed, pulls the lid aside. He had carefully arranged Sherlock’s journals by date. Only one overlapped with the time John had known him; the rest recorded thoughts and observations from as far back as before Sherlock had entered university. John remembers the day he had found one sitting out in the living room and joked about Sherlock’s “diary,” laughing at the man’s put-out pout. John had eventually coaxed him back out with some food Mrs. Hudson had dropped off, although he couldn’t remember what it had been. Just some sort of dinner thing that had made Sherlock’s stomach growl loud enough that John could hear it in the kitchen through Sherlock’s closed door.

John allows himself a small smile. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but it’s only an alert that the battery’s almost dead. He should be sleeping, but he had finally given in and answered Mycroft’s text yesterday. The thought of the meeting they have planned makes his stomach churn again, and he downs another swig of whiskey. It’s late, and he needs to sleep before facing Mycroft tomorrow - no, later today - but his exhaustion and the effects of the alcohol are still losing out to the turmoil and panic. Instead, he reaches for the oldest journal and crack open the age- and probably chemical- stiffened book; the pages do smell faintly of formaldehyde.

He falls asleep just before sunrise, two journals and half a bottle of whiskey later.

 

 

The honking of a particularly loud lorry horn startles John awake at nine. His phone, still clinging to the last of its battery, tells him that it’s 9:00, and he has forty-five minutes before he has to meet Mycroft, after only a few hours of sleep. He pushes the blue robe, his makeshift blanket, off his legs, almost knocking over the whiskey bottle as he stands.

Half an hour later, he’s showered, shaved, and managed to look otherwise presentable. The cafe Mycroft suggested after John refused to let him come to Baker Street is a short taxi ride away, in an unsurprisingly posh part of the city, and he manages to arrive with exactly two minutes to spare. Mycroft, of course, has already been seated. He looks up from the document he’s scanning when John sits down and smiles blandly.

“Hello, John. I hope this establishment is suitable to your tastes, since the club was too, ah, quiet for them.” Mycroft had of course tried to lure John into meeting him at the Diogenes Club, an even less desirable scenario.

A waitress sets a cup of tea, prepared just as he likes it, in front of him. He glances over at Mycroft, who is sipping from his own cup. “Listen, that text the other day…er, sorry about that. It wasn’t meant to go to you. Well, it was, but only because I thought _you_ had texted _me_.”

Mycroft waves a hand in dismissal. “If I let comments like yours bother me, John, I wouldn’t have survived very long in my line of work, would I?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, only leans forward to rest his elbows on the table, fingers steepled under his chin as he fixes a stare on John that seems is a shared Holmesian trait. His pale eyes take in John’s haggard face as if he can tell everything from the bags under his eyes and the deepening of the creases across his forehead.

“How are you, truly?”

“I’m fine, Mycroft.”

Mycroft studies him in silence for a full two minutes as John sips his tea and stares right back. When Mycroft speaks, it’s in a gentle, condescending tone that sets John’s teeth on edge.

“John, you very recently killed a man in situations even a seasoned soldier would find horrific. Other than that remarkably explicit message, you have ignored my attempts to contact you, and you are very clearly still grieving over my—”

“This isn’t about Sherlock, Mycroft.”

“No, John, it isn’t. It’s about _you_. There is something you are not telling me, and I cannot keep my promise to my brother to keep you safe if you will not tell me what is going on.”

Sherlock had asked Mycroft to keep an eye on him? When? He raises his hand in its brace and smirks humorlessly at Mycroft. “Doing a bang-up job so far.”

“This is not a _joke_.” Mycroft has gone completely, deadly still. “You disappeared from my surveillance, John. Twice. I don’t think I need to tell you how incredibly unlikely it is that anyone my network is observing with special interest should be able to do so once, let alone a second time. I need to know where you were during the times that you were not observed and with whom.”

He opens his mouth but realises the trap seconds before he gives himself away. Mycroft’s strategy suffers from one flaw: John lived with Sherlock and has seen this particular trick used effectively many times before. Mycroft doesn’t know that John was with anyone, but if John replies, “How did you know I was with someone,” he confirms the man’s suspicions. Instead the corners of his mouth curl up in another smirk.

“I’m not telling you a bloody thing, Mycroft.”

“John, you murdered a member of the Solomon Six, I will _not_ let you—”

“What, Mycroft? You won’t _let_ me? Excuse me, I know you are used to the entire world consisting of your subordinates, but I am _not_ one of them.” Heated anger curled deep inside him at Mycroft’s arrogance. His involvement in Sherlock’s life had not been a bad thing; Mycroft had gotten them both out of countless scrapes, including Alexander’s less than a week ago. But John was not Sherlock, and he does not need Mycroft trailing him like a watchdog when he is about to start killing people Mycroft is probably trying to protect.

“Maybe,” John hisses. “Maybe you aren’t as bloody powerful as you _think_ you are. Maybe you need to leave me alone, because I am _done_ being trailed around like a child. I can take care of myself, I am a grown man and a soldier and I do not need you.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak, but John cuts him off.

“ _No_. You couldn’t save Sherlock, what makes you think you can do any better with me? Is it suddenly convenient, to be able to keep watch on me, when you couldn’t keep your own brother safe? Should I wait for you to sell me out the moment I trust you? I don’t think I want to wait around that long.”

Mycroft looks shocked and maybe a little frightened at his outburst. As blunt and angry as he had been during their last face-to-face conversation, this was something far more vicious. “John, what happened to you after you left the hospital? Something is clearly wrong.”

John pushes his chair back and stands. There are eyes on his from the cafe’s other patrons, but he could scarcely give a flying fuck what anyone thinks. “Yes, Mycroft, something is wrong. Your brother is dead.”

Mycroft stands, a glint of anger in his eye now as well. “I am trying to _help you_ , John.”

“Stay away from me, Mycroft, and quit spying on me. Or else.”

He purposefully leaves the threat vague as he leaves the cafe, shoving his hands in his pockets as he shakes his head with fury at Mycroft and his decision to work for Solomon and the entire bloody world. It’s not like he can do anything to Mycroft—he knows the man has to have bodyguards—but it’s not like he really wants to hurt Sherlock’s brother. The thought sits surprisingly uneasy, even while his rage simmers at Mycroft’s patronising interference.

When he returns to Baker Street, John spends hours sorting through the rest of Sherlock’s belongings. He doesn’t read any more of the journals, simply puts them in the pile with the dressing gown. Most of the contents of the boxes goes into the pile on the bed instead. There isn’t much left to go through when his phone beeps.

_Day after tomorrow. Notting Hill. Sending a car._

 

 

At 10:30, the sleek black car stops in front of Baker Street. When John gets in, he’s surprised to see Solomon himself sitting at the seat’s far end. Even in the dim light, he’s wearing his sunglasses, but he tilts them down to eye John.

“I know you think criminal types are all delinquent, Johnny, but we do try to dress a bit nicer than that, yeah?”

John looks down at his outfit. He’s wearing what he usually does: his shooting jacket over a cardigan and button down, with a pair of jeans.

“Are you honestly telling me to go and change?”

Solomon just grins at him and makes a shooing motion towards the door.

When John comes back, he’s still wearing the shooting jacket, but he’d changed into a black turtleneck under a thick shawl cardigan with dark grey wool trousers. His black leather gloves are in his pocket, and he hadn’t forgotten his Sig upstairs when he changed, although he prays Solomon won’t be making him use his own gun. Anyone could trace it back to him in a heartbeat. Anyone being Mycroft or Greg in particular.

“Much better, Johnny boy. Now you look like a professional.”

Their drive is surprisingly short, barely fifteen minutes from the flat. They’re somewhere in Notting Hill when the driver parks on a quiet street of expensive-looking buildings. The few pedestrians they see are dressed well, and John sees why Solomon made him change. In these outfits, they’ll draw no one’s attention, blending in with the businessmen and politicians - who won’t be looking for a crime lord walking next to them on the street. It’s effective camouflage.

John follows Solomon to a door whose lock he picks after only the briefest of glances down the street.

The flat is empty in the way that only incredibly expensive flats can be in London, all crisp white walls and chrome and glass and minimalist art. Given the neighbourhood and how many thousands of pounds the flat’s owner is in debt to Solomon, John isn’t really surprised.

They find Alistair Spenser in his home office, a room larger than most of John’s flat. He’s frantically pleading with someone on the phone when they approach the door. While they wait for Spenser to finish his call, Solomon places a gun, equipped with a silencer, into John’s gloved hand. John could shoot him with this gun; for a brief moment, he’s tempted - and Solomon sees it in his eyes. But then he remembers far too much, and the temptation passes. He’s here to kill the poor bastard in the other room over something as petty as money. He has a job to do.

With a nod at John, Solomon opens the door, his own gun drawn and aimed at Spenser, who shrieks and tries to run for the window. John lunges forward and grabs him by the shoulder, leading him back to his desk chair.

Solomon taunts the man, who clearly knows how this visit will end. John doesn’t pay much attention to Solomon’s words. He’s focused on the snivelling businessman pleading for his life. It’s embarrassing and, frankly, pathetic watching a grown man beg like this. John had faced far worse, dust and blood and tanks and screams, but not once had he acted like this. He had faced death and survived to grieve for fallen comrades - a deep, soul-scarring grief that still woke him sweating and blurry-eyed in the night, not this showy facade meant only for his killer, remorse that would fade as soon as the danger retreated.

“I know I owe you, Solomon. Take anything, take my car, the flat, it’s yours!”

John watches as Solomon leans down closer to Spenser. “Oh, Alistair, see, it isn’t about the _money_ anymore. You owe me a debt and chose not to repay it. You _knew_ what would happen.”

“But I have- but-”

“Shush, Alistair. Time for deals is over. Now Johnny here is going to shoot you, and we’ll call it even, yeah?”

Solomon straightens and steps back, nodding to John in invitation.

He had said yes and followed, but until he pulls the trigger, the coin hovers in the air, neither heads nor tails. As he raises the gun, John’s eyes lock with Spenser’s. They’re both frozen, staring. Neither likes what he sees.

Spenser suddenly bolts for the window again, and he fires. The shot is clean, slicing through the back of the man’s head, the bullet taking bits of bone and brain with it as it rips out to embed in the opposite wall.

Solomon watches the body crumple to the floor, then pats John on the shoulder. They stare at the body for a moment before Solomon heads to the door. Maybe killing Spenser should bother John more, but of all the questions John should be asking himself, the only one he voices is the one most obvious: “Are we just leaving him, then?”

Solomon spares the body a backward glance. “This one, yeah, but not all of ‘em. Got a cleanup team already on the way.”

No one seems to have heard the shot. No sirens pierce the air, no police are assembled in the street. It’s just as calm and quiet as when they arrived.

When the car stops outside Baker Street, Solomon grabs his arm as he reaches for the door handle. It takes everything in John to suppress his instinct to attack in response. Now his body finally responds to a threat? It’s a laughable thought, only it really isn’t.

“Next time, I’ll tag along, but it’ll be your show. You’re not new to killing, so I don’t think I need to treat you like you are. There are men who have done worse to me than owe me money that need taking care of. Be in touch.”

“Oh, and don’t forget to check your bank account,” Solomon says with a wink before John steps out onto Baker Street.

 

 

In a hotel in Nagano, Japan, Sherlock Holmes wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again, real life decided to commandeer most of my free time, making it a challenge to get this chapter written. But hey, Sherlock’s back!
> 
> I found flats to use for my mental picture of Alistair Spenser’s place on Foxtons; the one I looked at costs upwards of $4 million. Also did a bit of research using, what else, Wikipedia. And sorry I don’t know much about guns.
> 
> Thanks for all the feedback, you lovely people :) I’ll try to update again soon, although it might be another few weeks at the outside. But I’ll try my best!


	7. Chapter 7

It’s early in the evening, but Sherlock has managed a few hours of sleep. It’s the most he’s gotten in days, a nap when his body is too tired to function without rest. When he sits up, he realises he’s forgotten to take off his shoes again. Luckily, the foot runner has kept the dirt off the pristine white sheets. He doesn’t want to deal with an irate housekeeping staff yet again.

He hunts in his bag for cigarettes and pads over to the open window to smoke. His room is just high enough, about halfway up the Hotel Kokusai. Uncomfortable, but bearable.

As he smokes, Sherlock runs a hand through his hair. It’s shorter now, the ends barely curling under his fingers. He had tried to cut it himself, in a filthy hotel in Amsterdam, and take more than he’d intended to. But he’d tried to leave the fringe alone.

The fingers of his free hand drop to drum a pattern on the windowsill. He’s been in Japan for three days of mediocre coffee and sleepless blocks of time and _boredom_ , waiting for his target…his last before one Sebastian Moran.

One by one, he’s hunted down the key players in his…battle? Confrontation? Game?…with James Moriarty. In two months, he has heard no whispers of Moriarty’s survival but plenty on the whereabouts of his allies. He’s been to America, Denmark, France, Ireland, India, China, and now, finally, he has tracked the second-to-last, Masaro Fujiwara, to Nagano. But his source has been far from forthcoming, pinpointing a location but not the date or time of Fujiwara’s arrival. Sherlock has only been told to be prepared and to wait for a call within the week. Three days in, he’s checking his phone every half hour and smoking far too much and reading the news online in hopes of finding some vaguely interesting crime to solve.

The wait is even more unbearable knowing that Moriarty’s right-hand man will be somewhere in London. Mycroft had left him a brief voicemail, blathering about insignificant findings before pausing and revealing the key piece to Sherlock’s victory. The sharpshooter, whose existence had remained hidden until almost the very last. A cunning man and one clearly valuable to Moriarty. Sherlock’s first two fingers tap the windowsill in turn, back and forth, index and middle. Fujiwara, Moran. Fujiwara, and then finally, _finally_ , Moran.

Sherlock tries to tell himself it’s simply the thrill of the game, of finally winning, that has his stomach tied in thick, clenching knots, but Sherlock Holmes is too clever to be deluded by himself.

In his bag are a dozen postcards, routed through Mycroft, from Molly. Sometimes she sent him small presents - cigarettes, new slides for his microscope, even a new pair of leather gloves while he was in New York during a particularly incessant snowstorm. The look of misery in her eyes as he had left the morgue had been so pervading that it had pierced his dull awareness. Moriarty had bruised his ego, but left him with newfound insight. Even if he is still unable to sense the reasoning behind emotions, his ability to detect them has at least been heightened. Thanks to Molly, Lestrade, and John.

And John.

No other person in Sherlock’s life has ever elicited the kind of guilt Sherlock has endured. It’s been two months since he left London, and he’s tried to tell himself that seeing John at his grave was not deeply unsettling. Mycroft and Molly have given him brief updates when he’s asked, but it has been two months since John watched him jump to his death. The last time they were together, John had shouted his name and denied every lie Sherlock had fed him and hidden his face in pervading grief, but Sherlock had seen the tears in John’s eyes. That anyone would cry for him, even John...

He finishes his cigarette and immediately lights another, contemplating the pattern of the smoke as he exhales slowly into the breeze. Even he knows that grief can destroy a person, but it has been two months since he has seen John and he does not know what to expect.

Apprehension, he thinks suddenly. The name for the roiling in his stomach, wholly unfamiliar. Useless, debilitating, but still present.

Sherlock grabs his phone, scrolls to Mycroft’s number, and quickly sends a message.

_I’m coming home. - SH_

 

 

 

John sinks into a hot bath, hand aching inside its brace from gripping the gun. It’s a physical reminder of what he’s just done.

When he finally leaves the bath, he decides to take care of the only other evidence still in his possession. All of his clothes, save for the shooting jacket and gloves, go into the fireplace. He’s about to light a match when he pauses, considering.

Soon the fireplace is full of clothing, John’s and Sherlock’s. He strikes the match and the lighter fluid has the fabric quickly aflame. He sips more whiskey and feeds dress shirts and trousers into the fire, thinking about everything and nothing at all.

Hours later, a knock on the door rouses him from his thoughts. He bristles with annoyance, fists already bunched, but it’s not Mycroft at the door. Greg stands, hand poised to knock again, on the threshold.

“Oh, you’re home. Was just about to leave a note,” he jokes, but John doesn’t laugh and Greg coughs in the awkward silence.

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing, department’s relatively quiet today actually. Just wanted to see if you wanted to see if you wanted to go get that pint. Can I, uh, come in?”

John steps back and lets him past. The fire catches Lestrade’s eye and he grins.

“Got a fire going, then? Now that’s cheerfu—” The words die in his throat as he watches John return to the pile add another shirt to join those already in the grate. His eyes go wide.

“John…are those…are those _Sherlock’s_ shirts?”

“Yes.”

Greg rifles through the pile, finding the box of papers beneath. “You’re burning his notes too? What if someone could _use_ these?” A thread of anger disrupts his falsely casual tone.

“I’ve read through most of them. D’you really think anyone else would be able to figure out what they even say, let alone what they mean?” He grabs a pile in his good hand and uses them to feed the flames, and Greg falls silent in defeat.

They watch the flames for a moment. John offers whiskey to Greg, but the inspector shakes his head. John can feel him attempting to stay quiet, fidgeting instead, but finally Greg must lose the battle with himself. The inspector sighs.

“John, are you all right?”

“ ‘Course I am,” he replies with an acid, mocking tone as he waves his injured hand, a reminder Greg doesn’t need.

“No, I meant—”

“—I know what you meant. I’m fine. Doing much better, in fact.”

“It’s just, we’re all worried about you, and then I come over and see you trying to, I don’t know—”

“Trying to clean out the apartment? Heaven forbid,” John replies with a false, too-wide smile that scares Greg more than anything so far.

“You know bloody well that’s not what this is!”

“Then what is it,” John snaps, finally showing the first real hint of emotion since he’d opened the door. “More of John Watson’s showy display of grief he can’t possibly still be feeling? Yes, everyone’s getting sick and tired of it, I know!”

Greg’s mouth opens and shuts as he gapes like a fish at John’s outburst.

“Maybe,” John continues, “maybe that’s just what I’m trying to do.”

“What?”

“Burn it all away. Burn the heart out of me,” he says to himself, and Greg feels a shiver go through him.

John jolts himself back to attention. “Well, at least I’m multitasking. Apartment cleaning and emotional spring cleaning at the same time.” He chuckles, eliciting a weak grin from Lestrade.

“You, uh, up for that pint tonight?”

“I want to get this finished up tonight. You busy later this week?”

“Uh, not sure yet. I’ll have to check and let you know, depending on the meetings schedule and whatever cases come up.”

John smiles again, that toothy, blank grin, and walks Greg to the door. “Sounds great. Be nice to get outside for some fresh air, now that most of the bumps and bruises are gone.”

He’s barely out the door when it closes behind him, sending him stumbling quickly away. His phone is in his hand before he’s flagged down a cab.

_Went to see John. Something’s not right with him, more than usual._

Lestrade waits for Mycroft’s reply, goosebumps rippling his skin from more than just the brisk wind.

 

 

 

Mycroft offers to meet him at the airport, but Sherlock refuses and takes a cab to St. Bart’s instead. He avoids the street he’d last seen from where he’d fallen sprawled on the pavement and enters the morgue through a back door, whose security cameras he’d already had Mycroft disable. It wasn’t as if anyone else tended to break into the morgue, after all. And other than his brother, Molly is the only person he hasn’t killed who still knows he’s alive.

Even so, she shrieks when she enters the lab and finds him sitting beside what John had teasingly nicknamed his favorite microscope. To her credit, only a few slides fall off the tray and shatter on the floor when she startles. The rest are soon abandoned to a countertop before she strides over and flings her arms around him.

“Sherlock, you’re back! It’s been months!”

His tense stillness alerts her to his disdain for the contact.

“Oh, sorry! I just got excited. How are you?”

“Still in one piece, although jetlagged. You look…” He searches for an appropriate word, stopping himself from saying ‘plump’. “…well-rested?”

“Thanks!” Her face brightens, then becomes serious again. “Does this mean you’ve managed to…”

“The only remaining major associate of James Moriarty is Sebastian Moran, and I’ve been informed that he is currently residing in London.”

Molly shakes her head. “Jim never introduced us, but then he wouldn’t have, would he?”

“Mycroft no doubt has sufficient surveillance and security in place, but you should be careful nonetheless.” It’s a meaningless, sentimental statement, but as much as he knows how, he does care for Molly. He owes her, and it would be poor repayment to be his usual self.

“I will. But Sherlock…” She reaches toward him as if to rest a hand on his arm, then stops. It’s not like her to self-censor either. Something’s happened.

“I haven’t made contact with Lestrade or John yet.”

“How did you— never mind, I don’t even want to know. But Sherlock, since you left, John’s…different now.”

He stays silent, impatiently waiting for her to continue.

“I don’t know how much Mycroft’s told you, but he was helping Lestrade track down Ned Alexander and—”

He listens to her stuttered, halting recounting of John’s injuries and Alexander’s death. Panic and rage flicker through him at the thought of anyone injuring John, but the rational majority of his mind subdues the emotions.

“There’s more, Sherlock,” she says quietly. “He’s not the same. Every Sunday he visits your grave, and he’s been so _quiet_ and sad, but since he got out of the hospital, Greg says something’s changed about him. He’s hiding something and he’s gotten so angry, I had coffee with Mrs. Hudson the other day, she’s an old friend of one of my neighbors - they were schoolmates - and she told me he _shouted_ at her the other day!”

Tears fill her eyes, but even now, Sherlock is ill-equipped to deal with crying. He assures Molly he’s going to reveal himself to John soon and forces her to promise to keep his return a secret until then. Normally it would be useless to elicit such a promise, but Molly’s been reliably silent about his existence thus far.

But first, Sebastian Moran.

 

 

 

Two weeks after his first kill, John’s bank account is at an astounding amount and his wardrobe is full of dark cashmere turtlenecks and soft black leather gloves. He’s met Greg at the pub, managed to evade Mycroft’s incessant, daily messages, and regained full use of his right hand, with physical therapy appointments every few days to begin in another week.

In two weeks, he’s killed three more men.

Christopher Reid-Thomas, investment banker who’d borrowed money from the Six. Oliver Foden, who’d slept with the wife of one of the Six’s underlings. Daniel Bennett, whose crime had never been revealed, but who died silent and stoic, with only faint choking dribbles as John throttled him with invisible-fine piano wire.

He sleeps soundly, dreamlessly, deeply. He tries to forget.

His next kill, in three days, is some poor bastard named Harry Holden. Maybe it should bother him, the coincidence of the name, but his sister has all but disappeared from his life. He has a new phone, a new job, a new life.

In three days, he’ll take another life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say thank you to everyone who's sent me messages and reviewed in the year it's been since I've updated. I had half of this chapter written, and it had just been sitting around, but I finally got some inspiration again :) The support for this poor neglected story has been amazing! Thank you again to all the fans ;)


	8. Chapter 8

This time, things do not go according to plan.

Harry Holden should be a straightforward kill, a quick gunshot to the head. In a manner of speaking, that _was_ how he had died…before John arrived, in time to see a spreading bloodstain and a tall figure still gripping the gun that had ended Holden’s life.

John has his new Sig instantly up and aimed right at the man, who turns to face John with a giant grin.

“Hi there, John Watson. I got this one for you.”

“Who the bloody hell are you, and who sent you?”

The man shifts closer, his own gun trained on John. “Sometimes I forget you don’t know me, when I know you so well. Colonel Sebastian Moran, pleased.”

It takes John a minute to remember, but when he does, the reason the name is familiar hits him like a sucker punch to the gut. “You worked for that, that— I should _maim_ you.”

Moran just grins wider, a glazed, somewhat manic look in his eyes. It’s unsettling, and John’s wary despite the rage he can barely keep in check.

“Well, that would be fair, if I got to maim you too. Would say we’re already an eye for an eye, except that’s not quite true, is it?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know, what with Sherlock—”

“Don’t you _dare_ speak his name to me again.”

Moran’s grin falls just a few centimetres, but then he brightens again, a laugh breaking free. “Oh, I _see_. You don’t know, do you?” He laughs until he’s doubled over in glee and John’s so tense with fury his gun shakes. He steadies himself, aims for Moran’s head, but the man seems to sense his intentions and looks back up, quiet now but still grinning.

“Well, wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise then. Ought to be going. You know, I really wasn’t sure if I was going to kill you today, but after this, I think you’re definitely worth keeping around. Don’t want to break my new toy just yet, if you’re going to be so _interesting_. Finally gone ‘round the bend, just like the rest of us. No more good-boy-Johnny, now you’re up to your elbows in blood and guts.”

John pulls the trigger, but the bullet hits empty air where Moran had been scarcely a few moments before. “Ah, ah, Johnny _BOY_!” He’s halfway out the window, giving John a little jaunty wave as he shifts on the sill, preparing to jump. “Temper, Johnny. The fun’s just beginning!”

John fires again, but the bullets hit wood instead of flesh. Moran is gone.

 

 

 

 

Lestrade, Mycroft, and Sherlock walk into a pub. Or the equivalent of a pub in Mycroft’s circle, which is to say an establishment with expensive leather sofas, quiet booths, and drinks that cost more than the inspector makes in three days.

Anthea sits herself at a nearby table, close enough that she can overhear their conversation but far enough to give the illusion of privacy. Not that Lestrade is worried about her ability to keep mum—especially when he’s still reeling from the shock of seeing Sherlock, well, _alive_. And sort of…tan.

He’d been ushered into Mycroft’s car, turned to look at the passenger beside him, and realized that it wasn’t the Holmes he was expecting. Lestrade had pulled his gun in a heartbeat.

“Who the _bloody_ hell are _you_? How dare you—”

“As I’m sure I’ll be saying quite often, I’m not an impostor.”

“Like hell you aren’t, you— How did you get in here?”

His rant was cut short by Mycroft’s appearance from the front seat. “Shocking though it may be to see Sherlock alive, I’d like to keep him that way, so if you wouldn’t mind putting away your gun?”

“It’s…actually you? But—”

After Lestrade had spluttered and struggled for a few more moments, Sherlock had cut him short. “—how did I survive, or did I in fact survive, the fall from Saint Bart’s? Irrelevant, as I’m clearly not dead.”

Lestrade had lowered his gun and gaped openmouthed. “God, it really is you, isn’t it?”

Even now, he can’t stop staring, noticing that Sherlock’s hair is shorter and he has a few more lines in his forehead. But otherwise, he seems to be mostly the same, if a bit more subdued. That could just be jetlag, or perhaps, he thinks, what he’s been through has taken its toll on Sherlock as much as the rest of them.

“Inspector, if you could please focus, you’ll be free to go back to staring at my brother in slack-jawed awe soon enough.” There’s a hint of playfulness in Mycroft’s voice, but Lestrade hears the edge that betrays the strain hidden beneath.

Sherlock studies Lestrade briefly—enough time, he supposes, for Sherlock to know everything that’s happened since Saint Bart’s that he hasn’t already gleaned —then redirects his attention to his brother.

“John is evading my surveillance. Frequently, though not routinely.”

Sherlock snorts humorlessly. “Not difficult.”

“His behavior and personality have…shifted, beyond the normal parameters for grief-related changes.”

Here Lestrade breaks in. “He was acting normal, you know, very upset and everything, but after the Ned Alexander thing, something…happened. We don’t know what, but it’s like he’s…fine, but not.”

“How very informative. A person experiencing the stages of grief is acting differently than usual.”

“He’s not himself, I’m telling you. There’s something going on, he’s been avoiding me and burning things in the fireplace—”

“You seem very keen to ascribe some ulterior motive to his everyday activities. I wonder why that is? Over-concern, over your neglect of John? Or because you know the truth, or some part of it, while he remains in the dark?”

“That’s not what this is about, you arrogant—”

Mycroft slams his fist down on the table, making their drinks rattle and startling Anthea’s attention from her phone. She half-rises, body tense, but settles again when the instinct to be on guard against impending attack is suppressed.

“ _Enough_.”

There is silence, stillness, as Mycroft glares furiously at his younger brother. “Sherlock, is it that you refuse to see—to put it in your own words, to _observe_ —that something is amiss simply because to admit John is damaged is to admit you are at the heart of the matter responsible for that damage, unintentional though it might have been?”

Sherlock actually opens his mouth to speak but, for the first time in a very long time, cannot find the words to reply. “I—”

After many more long, still moments, Mycroft thrusts a folder across the table. “Anthea has compiled data from weeks of surveillance footage.” Sherlock rifles through the pages, eyes scanning rapidly, before he carefully lowers the folder. He doesn’t meet Mycroft’s eyes, instead staring past his brother as he processes what he knows.

“How many bodies have the Met found lately, Ned Alexander’s death, attributed to gang violence?”

“The same as usual, nothing out of the ordinary. Why?”

“Has John got a new coat, by chance?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“You’re right.”

Lestrade chokes on his gin and tonic. “What?”

“John is involved in…something _incredibly_ dangerous.” The hesitation in Sherlock’s voice is noticeable, even to mere mortals like Lestrade. “I’ll need to find out more—”

“Sherlock, if you know what’s happening, I need you to tell me. It’s to do with Alexander and the Six, yes, but I can’t protect him if I don’t know the _specifics_.” Mycroft speaks through gritted teeth, a tense jaw.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches, but his tone is sharp. “It must be difficult, Mycroft, to be reminded of the limitations of your intellect now that someone more insightful than the average idiot is around.”

Mycroft looks thunderous, then to Lestrade’s—and Sherlock’s, though he conceals it well—surprise, he sighs in defeat. “Sherlock, the last time anyone was able to avoid my surveillance…it was James Moriarty.”

Sherlock starts to speak, but Mycroft stares him down, a sheen of intent in his eyes. “Listen to me, for once in your life, Sherlock, because God knows you didn’t the last time I tried to help you, and that very well may have put us where we are now. Whatever John’s involved in, you need to go to him, and try to make him see reason. Because if he’s beyond my reach now, he may very well be beyond my help when he needs it most.”

Lestrade watches them both, looks from one brother to the other, feeling as though he’s intruding on some sort of silent commune, a telepathic communication conveyed in steady gazes. Sherlock is the one to look away in defeat this time, noticing that his fist has bunched the linen tablecloth in a tight grip and staring at the limb like he hadn’t known it had moved to grasp the cloth.

When Mycroft speaks again, his voice is softer, almost gentle. “Sherlock, I know this must be difficult—”

Sherlock snorts, but the grim set of his mouth belies the attempt at disdain. “I’ve had plenty of time to think about this, Mycroft. Different circumstances, of course, but…I have done John Watson a great disservice.”

Mycroft nods once, and stands to gather his coat and ever-present umbrella, Anthea already moving to his side. Lestrade joins him, unsure.

“Then it’s time for you to make amends. Go observe.”

 

 

 

 

Sherlock watches 221B—and John—from the apartment across Baker Street, abandoned since the explosion had expelled the building’s previous tenants. No one had wanted to rent there afterwards, and now it’s a perfect vantage point to study John through the narrow windows. Mycroft had given him the military-grade scope he’d requested, no questions asked. If agreeing with Mycroft got him gadgets like this one, he thinks, admiring the sleek craftsmanship of the device, maybe he ought to do it more often. Unlikely, but amusing to contemplate.

The instant he lays eyes on John, he knows Mycroft is right.

For two days, he watches and waits. John makes tea and reads the paper and disappears into the downstairs bedroom for hours to sleep. Knowing John has been sleeping in Sherlock’s bed, he tells himself, shouldn’t make his chest tight, his breathing uneven. It was logical for John to have abandoned the upstairs bedroom in favor of the closer room. Logical, nothing more.

John’s clothes are of a higher quality than he should be able to afford, indicating he’s found a new source of income. Cashmere and rich wool and supple dark leather.

His hair is no longer trimmed short in front, left to its messy waves and slightly frizzy texture. Instead, it’s sharply parted, slicked back with product, combed back. Professional, competent, powerful when combined with the new wardrobe.

_Possible sources of income: new career. New woman. Combination of the two: male escort. Would presumably be less depressed and more sociable, although still as secretive._

The answer comes to him as he watches John sit with fists clenched, staring into the glowing fireplace, jaw set in what Sherlock knows is barely suppressed annoyance, anger. He’s seen the look, the signs, on John before. Strange that it’s been so long and yet John is still so familiar, despite the alterations. People don’t change, not in any way that really matters, but the man he’s watching contradicts that assertion. John is familiar, but far from the same. There’s something more tense about him, the set of his shoulder and his gait, an anxious control. John is still John, but he’s not the same John Sherlock left grieving outside of Saint Bart’s.

Unhindered by distraction, his thoughts blossom and swirl to a conclusion that comes to realization with enough force to knock the breath from Sherlock’s chest like a physical blow.

_New clothes + new haircut = power, competence, new source of funds. If funds from new career, usually based on already assembled skills. John’s skills: medicine, military tactics. Healing, and killing._

John Watson is a killer.

 

 

 

 

That night, Sherlock does not sleep. He does not call Lestrade or Mycroft. He does not enter 221B, though he knows more access points that even the architect who created the building. Until the next day, he waits, observes.

Until John puts on the wool coat, the silken wool trousers, the soft black leather gloves. Until John exits 221B and enters a sleek black town car, with tinted windows and a fake plate. Then he moves. The cab driver doesn’t ask questions after Sherlock shoves a roll of cash at him equal in sum to one month’s pay to follow the black car closely, but not close enough to be noticed.

His phone buzzes, Mycroft’s reply to his earlier text.

 

_I’ve lost him on surveillance. Be careful. — Mycroft_

 

This is it, the point at which John falls into shadows deep enough for even Mycroft to part. But the black car is still in Sherlock’s sight, dodging traffic just enough to move ahead rapidly without attracting undue attention. Right onto Nottingham, slight right onto Marylebone High Street, left at the third cross street onto Devonshire…a route made convoluted by the illogical layout of London’s streets, easy to lose someone in the press of cars and numerous turns. On Liverpool Street, the car stops and John exits.

Sherlock follows him through the rotating glass doors of Andaz Hotel — _formerly The Great Eastern Hotel, rooms ranging from 229 pounds to 518 pounds per day, frequented by visiting business travelers under the age of 45, used as location for several films_ — at a careful distance, keeping far enough away that his reflection does not catch John’s eye in the wall of mirrors. He strides, like John, with purpose, but moves quickly over to an adjoining room full of decorative shelves. He can hear the elevator, listens to John step on, and quickly walks across the lobby to the stairs.

He’s in better shape than before he left London, after months of running and fighting. The new strength in his limbs proves useful as he calculates times and speeds in his head, guided by the hum of the elevator. He follows the sound to the fifth floor and waits long seconds before pulling the fire door open and scanning the hallway.

None of the doors are open, and John is nowhere to be seen in the long hallway.

More numbers and figures run through his mind, time and pace and probability, as he listens at each door he passes, for what he can’t say. Some sign of disorder, of chaos, like—a shriek, muffled enough that even this close to the door, Sherlock barely hears the sound of distress. _Female. Not a sexual noise of arousal, but one of surprise and fear._ Then all is silent.

Sherlock picks the lock quietly, gun already in hand, and pushes the door open.


	9. Chapter 9

Months of separation end in a moment as John and Sherlock stare at each other.

The shock is almost enough to make John actually drop his gun, but though his aim wobbles, his weapon stays in his hand, pointed not at the lanky, middle-aged woman kneeling on the plush carpet of the enormous suite with mascara running down her face and her dark hair tangled from struggling, but now at Sherlock, standing in front of the closing door with his arms at his sides and every thought on the man before him.

“John.” He’s never been skilled at finding the right words for a given situation, a flaw to which the many victims of his questioning can attest. If ever there was a time he regretted neglecting his bedside manner, this is it.

“You, you…” His gun stays steady, but his free hand trembles, belying the little composure he’s been able to muster.

“Please, please, help me! I don’t know who this man is—”

“Quiet.” It’s said without much bite, but John still looks over at his hostage, though his gun remains pointed at Sherlock. “Go to that closet over there, and shut yourself in.”

“But—”

“Either that, or I kill you right now.” The coldness of John’s voice, the flickering doubt and panic and anger, compel the woman to comply. Neither man moves as she runs for the closet and shuts the door, the lock clicking to seal her inside, safe for now.

“It’s you.”

“Yes.” Strange, but not really, that John instantly knows it’s really him, not an impostor but the man he’s lived with, fought with, fought beside.

“Well?”

Sherlock knows what John is asking, but chooses to ignore the question the other man hasn’t yet truly asked.

“I’ve been in hiding, taking care of the last of Moriarty’s men. The only one left is—”

“—Sebastian Moran, yes, I know. Paid me a visit recently.”

“He came to Baker Street?” Alarm, panic, his brain racing, until John speaks again.

“No, he found me…somewhere else.”

He can’t keep ignoring the elephant in the room — or woman in the closet, as it were.

“Who are you working for, John? Alexander’s employers, impressed with your skills? Or perhaps…Solomon himself?”

John’s eyes flash. “Why do you care?”

“What?” John has the absolutely infuriating ability to render him inept at speech. The very first time they’d met, John had puzzled him, more than the quiet, sad, crippled doctor he appeared. And he still manages to surprise.

“God damn it, Sherlock…this whole time, this whole time…”

It’s as if the composure John’s managed so far simply dissolves.

Sherlock takes barely a step forward before John swings, his empty fist colliding with Sherlock’s cheekbone hard enough to slam him back against the door. Sherlock doesn’t react, other than to reach up to press his fingertips against the tender skin of his cheek, but any question of John backing down, his anger appeased by that one solid punch, is answered when he swings again, snapping Sherlock’s head to the side as he backhands a blow to the other cheek.

Months of alleyway brawls and civilized fights turned ugly have ingrained some small instinct in Sherlock, so it’s almost without conscious thought that he’s able to block John’s next attempt, this one with the hand holding the Sig. John looks shocked for a moment - come to his senses? But no. A dark fury crackles through his eyes, almost malicious, as he lunges, but Sherlock shoves him back and lands his own punch that will leave John’s eye blackened. In approximately one hour ten minutes, but there’s no time for analytics when John tackles him to the floor, drawing his gun up to aim until Sherlock manages to grab his wrist and bash it to the floor, sending the gun spinning away as they roll and wrestle. A lamp shatters as Sherlock’s head connects with the side table and sends it toppling; a dull thud sounds when he manages to slam John’s head against the thinly-carpeted wood floor.

At first, neither notices the closet door open slowly as the woman peeks out, eyes wide and fearful as she watches the struggle. Sherlock sees her creep towards the door and hopes John did not. His mind reels with more calculations—timing, angles, speeds—but John’s instincts and years of training beat his years of theory and months of improvising. John to stretch his arm toward his gun while the other lands a punitive slap across his eyes, momentarily blinding him and weakening his grip. He blinks them open, wincing at even the dull light, but before his vision clears, there’s the sound of a single shot fired past a silencer and the loud thud of a body collapsing to the floor.

 

 

 

 

Neither of them move, both panting heavily. The wall is plastered with blood and bits of brain and other gore, but the carnage is ignored for the moment as Sherlock stares wide-eyed at John. The line of disbelief had been crossed; no longer could he, even if all of the evidence and the conclusions of his own genius had indicated otherwise, ignore the truth. Not until John had pulled that trigger in something far from self-defense.

Sherlock remembers, now of all times, that his own gun had been at hand during this entire encounter. Not once had he truly thought he would need it. But then, had he ever really been convinced of John’s transformation? No, he had trusted that John was still John, and a woman had died because of it.

John stands, wiping his gun and tucking it away. A glance at Sherlock tells him that the other man knew Sherlock was armed, too. But he ignores Sherlock for the moment, presses a few buttons on the phone, speaks into it quietly while keeping Sherlock in his line of sight as Sherlock stands and waits. Whatever happens now, the violence seems to be over for the moment. But what does he know? he thinks with a wry twitch of his mouth.

John spares one glance for the body.

“Who was she?” Sherlock ventures to ask.

“An assistant to someone at Parliament. Knew details about…things she shouldn’t.” He catches himself before he reveals too much. Smart move. “Decided to resort to blackmail. I was supposed to be the delivery boy, meet her to hand over the money. She shouldn’t have come alone.” His tone is judgmental but flat. He straightens his lapels, smoothes his hair back into order, then his eyes meet Sherlock’s with some inscrutable look.

“They’ll be here to take care of the body any minute. We have to go, get a cab hom—back to Baker Street, to talk there.” John clears his throat, trying to move past the slip. He moves closer to Sherlock, until they’re standing a breath apart and the taller man can’t look anywhere but into John’s eyes.

“Mycroft stays out of this, and Lestrade, yes?”

“For now, at least…yes.”

The vulnerability that had flickered in John’s eyes for a scant moment is gone, replaced by the cold, unfeeling stare unsettling to see in those eyes that usually glowed with amusement, pride, trust, or…but none of that matters, because this is not his John standing so close that Sherlock can feel the heat of him. This is a new John, one who Sherlock doesn’t know, doesn’t yet understand.

“All right. Let’s go.”

John leads, and Sherlock follows.

 

 

 

 

On the way back, Sherlock ignores the familiar streets in favor of studying John, who has a quiet, brief phone conversation during the short ride.

“Surveillance is still taken care of. No one will know you were there.” By no one, Sherlock knows John means Mycroft. Strange that John’s protecting him when not an hour ago, he was pointing a gun at him. It’s an intriguing contradiction. At least that’s still the same about John.

The flat is…cleaner. Less cluttered. John immediately closes the curtains, hiding them from the street and any cameras outside, before heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sherlock wanders the room, cataloguing the changes. So many of his books are missing, and when he joins John in the kitchen, he sees that the remaining equipment fits in a small box high up on a shelf. John had kept his microscope, at least. And the bullet holes in the wall.

John finds him staring into his closet, where John’s clothes now reside, next to the few things of Sherlock’s he’d kept. Sherlock’s pale fingers caress the purple shirt, and he doesn’t look up from the dark fabric.

“You truly didn’t expect me to come back.”

John’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t answer. “Tea’s ready.”

He disappears back into the living room. Sherlock follows, briefly glancing at the disheveled sheets of the bed and the empty mugs on the nightstand before rejoining John.

His chair is free of dust, but not cleaned tonight. There’s a steaming mug of tea, with just the right amount of cream and sugar, waiting on the arm. John’s sitting in his own armchair, sipping at his tea carefully, eyes closed and brow furrowed as he grips the mug a little too tight. Sherlock ignores his own drink, resting his elbows on the chair’s arms and steepling his fingers, waiting until John opens his eyes and sets his tea aside.

“I thought you were dead.” John’s voice is quiet, hoarse, strained. “I wanted to think…but what I saw, on the pavement…I believed in you, Sherlock, but I also believed you. More fool I.”

“I couldn’t tell you the truth, John. I know it isn’t an adequate reason, but I was trying to protect you.”

John’s hands clench into fists. “From what, Sherlock? Moran? He’s known where I was all along. Probably could have put a bullet in me anytime he wanted. And Moriarty’s other men? You can’t seriously tell me I couldn’t have helped you find them.”

“I couldn’t take the chance—”

“That wasn’t your choice to make!” John roars, slamming his fist into the chair arm. “Who the hell are you, to decide whether or not I need protecting? I don’t need you to save me, Sherlock, I can bloody well take care of myself!”

“I was doing what I thought—”

“What you thought, is it? That’s exactly the problem, you always think but you don’t think, Sherlock! How do you think I felt, having to see them turn you over—” John chokes, pale, and Sherlock reaches a hand out but John brushes it away, turning his face aside in an attempt to calm the acidic rage and nausea turning his stomach.

“It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t actually you, you know. Because I thought it was. And I thought you were dead, and…having to see everyone look at me, asking constantly how I was feeling, like they didn’t know, like I was some pitiful…” He suddenly glares up at Sherlock with a seething fury. “I wanted to tear them fucking all apart.”

Sherlock freezes, a cold shiver of something very like fear twisting through him. “John, I’m…sorry…”

“You think saying you’re sorry is going to fucking cut it?” John’s out of his chair in an instant, one fist clenching the collar of Sherlock’s shirt, hauling him in towards those furious eyes. The teacup shatters, spilling its contents across the floor.

“If you’re going to kill me, John, then do it.” He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away, and John doesn’t either. He inhales sharply but doesn’t release Sherlock. Everyone around him had shied from the truth, from the broken, twisted thing he’s become, but Sherlock challenges him, sees him, and doesn’t flinch away.

“You took everything from me.” The accusation hangs in the air, electric, caustic. “Everything that made me feel useful again disappeared the day you decided to protect me. And where were you, when Ned Alexander had his fucking hands wrapped around my throat?”

“I’m not quite sure of the timeline, but—”

“Damn it, Sherlock, that’s not the fucking point!” John barks out a humorless laugh, releasing him and leaning back to rest his head in his hands. His voice is muffled, subdued, when he speaks again. “Did Mycroft tell you what happened, in the cemetery?”

“I know the basic details, yes.”

“I beat a man to death with a rock, Sherlock, a piece of a tombstone.” A quiet, slightly manic giggle escapes him then, and this time Sherlock is well and truly afraid. Because the last time he’d heard a laugh like that had been from the mouth of James Moriarty.

“You did what you had to, in order to survive. John…” There’s a quiet desperation in his voice that he doesn’t try to hide. If anything is going to save John and whatever he’s become, he can’t deceive or hold back, not this time. He can’t lose John.

“How many people have you killed?” It isn’t what he’d meant to ask.

“Fifteen, counting tonight.” No emotion accompanies the admission. It’s as if John’s talking about how many cups of tea he’s had, how many minutes his commute had been.

“Someone was watching Alexander, saw me kill him. They picked me up, and offered me a job. And he was right, you know.”

“Right about what?”

“I didn’t say yes because he threatened to blackmail me. I wanted to do it. I needed to do it, because…Sherlock,” John says, meeting his eyes again. “Something broke that day, when you died…and I don’t know if I want to fix it.”

“John—”

“No, sod it, I’m done with this.” He gets up, heads to the kitchen, returns with a paper bag and a towel for the mess on the floor. Sherlock watches him, almost offers to help. Almost.

“You can have your room back, I’ll sleep out here.” He focuses on cleaning up the ceramic shards and doesn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“It’s your room now, I can sleep out here.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

By the time Sherlock has changed for bed, savoring the silken feel of his favorite dressing gown (which John has thankfully chosen to save), John is finishing up in the kitchen, busy at the sink. Sherlock approaches slowly, reaches out a hand towards John’s shoulder, but John whips around suddenly, grabbing his hand and slamming him up against the cupboards.

“You don’t touch me, Sherlock.”

“Let go of me.” Sherlock’s voice is dangerous, but John ignores the warning.

“Or what, you’re going to try and fight me again? Try me.”

Sherlock yanks his wrist free, and before John can react, he’s now the one being pinned against the wall. “You forget that I’ve had just as much training as you, unconventional though it may have been. So don’t try and treat me like some civilian buffoon.”

The potential for another brawl sizzles in the air, but Sherlock lets go, steps back.

“Everything’s gone wrong, John.”

“Go to bed, Sherlock.” John slides away, heads for the couch, and curls up under the blanket, face hidden.

His pillows smell like John—sweat and tea and something sharp like grass—and sleep evades him that night.


	10. Chapter 10

When John wakes, his blackened eye is swollen shut, his neck is sore, and his back is stiff. He’d almost forgotten how uncomfortable the couch is, having slept there last about a month ago. It had been a step up from sleeping curled up in Sherlock’s armchair, but at least…

He whips around, flailing to free himself from the confines of his blanket, and sees Sherlock perched in a crouch in his chair, watching him.

“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock!” The posture is far too similar to his daydreams for comfort. “Would you get down from there?”

“Why does it bother you?”

John finally escapes the blanket and glares at Sherlock, wincing at the dull pain in his eye as he tries to relax. “Because it’s bloody creepy, that’s why. Were you out here all night?”

“Most of it, yes.”

“Christ. I can’t deal with you this early. I’m going to shower. Make some tea or do something useful.”

He’s already in a bad mood, and judging by the pale light creeping in from behind the blinds, it’s far too early to even think about being awake. Their conversation last night left a bad taste in John’s mouth, and the worst part is that it’s far from over.

He makes his way towards the bathroom but stops just inside the doorway. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him still, watching him, analysing him, judging him. John turns slowly, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“Sherlock, what’s your middle name?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” He escapes to the bathroom, leaving Sherlock staring after him, brow furrowed.

John’s phone buzzes as he’s finishing getting dressed in his—Sherlock’s—room. The number is restricted, but he recognizes the voice at the other end.

“The boys said yesterday ended up messier than they expected. Took a while to clean up.” Solomon doesn’t sound angry yet. A good sign, but his heart starts racing regardless.

“She gave me a little more trouble than I expected. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“If you say so, Johnny. Got a little something planned, I’ll call you with the details soon.” The line goes dead.

Sherlock appears just as he’s tugging on his jumper, a new cashmere blend in a deep green he’d bought after killing a rogue banker who’d decided to skim off the top of the Solomon accounts. It’s become one of his favorite jumpers.

“Was that him?”

John jumps and flails, smacking his right hand into the doorframe and cursing at the sharp pain that sears through the recently healed bones. He can’t even wince, just bends over, gripping the injured limb and trying to focus on the sound of his own breathing.

Slim, pale fingers reach for his and tug his right hand away gingerly, massaging the joints and slowly bending the fingers. The pain begins to recede, but he doesn’t pull away from Sherlock’s cold touch.

“The injury is relatively recent, judging by the healing progress. Fracture caused by extreme pressure, but no lasting nerve injury.” There’s a question in his tone.

John pulls his hand away, sits on the edge of the bed to flex his fingers absentmindedly. “Ned Alexander wasn’t a small man. Had hands like shovels. I was trying to protect Sally when we went after him, and he crushed my bloody hand.”

When Sherlock stays silent, John continues. “I never should have gone in alone. I called for backup but I should have waited, instead of chasing after him like I was some bloody hero. Almost got myself killed.”

“But you didn’t.”

John lets out a humorless laugh, a dry, sad chuckle. “No, I didn’t. But maybe I should have.”

“No. John—” The buzz of an incoming text interrupts. Only two people would be texting Sherlock, and he can’t afford to ignore either right now, even for something as important as this. “Damn it, Mycroft.” He can’t remember that last time he swore. The word has an interesting taste, and the surprise on John’s face might be worth future use of objectionable language.

 

_I need an update. — Mycroft_

He types out a quick reply. He also can’t remember the last time he’s had to use the word ‘please’ when speaking to Mycroft. It’s not as enjoyable as the swearing was.

 

_Things as we suspected. More details later. Leave it to me for now. Please. — SH_

_Fine. For now. — Mycroft_

 

Satisfied that they’re not about to be jumped by an SCO19 team, he pushes the phone deep into a pocket.

“What did you tell him?” John’s good hand is bunched into a fist again, and he looks defensive, ready for a fight.

“That I would talk to him later, and I asked him to let me handle this.”

John snorts in derision. “Because you’re doing such a good job of things.”

Annoyance flickers through Sherlock. “Would you rather I let Mycroft attempt to talk to you? It seems as though he’s been trying for some time with insignificant results.”

“I don’t need to listen to this.” John pushes himself up from the bed, stalks to the kitchen to start tea. But Sherlock can’t leave well enough alone and follows him, standing far too close as John measures the leaves and tries to look anywhere but at the man beside him.

“Why is it so difficult to comprehend that I left in order to protect you, not out of some attempt to abandon you?” The words hit their target; as usual, Sherlock is far too astute, knows him too well even after everything that’s happened.

“But you did, Sherlock, don’t you bloody _see_ that?” But he knows Sherlock doesn't see, and suddenly he needs to make Sherlock understand, right now. “Every single case, every clue, every step, every _moment_ , I had to struggle to keep up with you. I wasn’t good enough, and I was never going to be, and when you…you…” His voice goes hoarse, and he has to clear his throat several times before he can continue. “I thought you’d finally realized that I couldn’t help you. I thought you believed you were all alone. All I could remember was the last time I'd seen you, in the lab…”

Now it’s words instead of his voice that fail him, but now that he’s started, he can’t hold himself back. “I— I couldn’t stop you, and it made me fucking furious that I was so weak, useless and dull like everyone else, a cripple who let his best friend die in front of him and couldn’t do anything to stop it—”

“John, you are not weak.” Sherlock reaches out a hand, and this time John is too distracted to stop him. His fingers slowly trace the bruised, tender skin of John's eye with feather-light touches until his fingertips trail away, down the hard line of John's jaw to tilt his head up. Their eyes meet, and for a moment Sherlock sees a bright flicker in John’s uninjured eye that looks like…but it can’t be, John doesn’t…but then it’s gone. John’s stepping back, out of reach, back behind his shields, as if nothing had happened.

“You’re wrong. Sherlock, I wanted to die." The admission of something he'd denied, never spoken aloud, rattles them both. "But now, I just…I don’t feel anything anymore. Except when I…it’s the only time I don’t feel so fucking _useless_.” The fury careens back into John’s eyes, sudden and total, and Sherlock feels trapped in it. John replaced everything with sheer mindless rage in an attempt to feel something—anything—beyond crushing grief, to avoid becoming who he was when they first met. And this cold, cruel man fighting his John, buried somewhere inside, is a monster entirely of Sherlock’s making.

“I won’t give it up, Sherlock. Not even for you,” he spits out, pushing past the other man and out of the flat, slamming the door as he goes.

The moment the door closes behind John, Sherlock calls Mycroft.

"Well, this is rather sooner than I expected to hear from you, brother dear." Mycroft's droll, amused tone grates, and Sherlock's having none of it.

"Mycroft, I need time."

"You'll have to be more specific, I'm afraid."

He rolls his eyes, despite the futility of the gesture during a phone conversation. Sherlock strides over to the window, but John's disappeared down Baker Street. Not lost in the crowd, though; Sherlock could pick John out of dozens if need be.

"I can give you the specifics in person. But I need you to leave him alone, at least for the time being."

"And why is that?"

"Don't play coy with me, Mycroft!" John's anger seems to be contagious. Or perhaps it's because it's John they're speaking of that Sherlock can't tolerate Mycroft being Mycroft. Too much rides on his brother's decisions for petty mannerisms to interfere. "I need time to find out more about why John's become—" He stops himself. It isn't that saying the words make it true, but rather saying them to Mycroft means his brother will act on his conclusion. In a swift and probably lethal manner, John or not. "I need," he starts again, "time to try to help him."

"All right, Sherlock. But for your sake, and his, I hope you're able to make him see reason and stop whatever it is he thinks he's doing. And don't think I won't be expecting to hear those specifics you've promised me. I'll make arrangements."

"Fine." He's already moving the phone away from his ear, satisfied for now, when he hears Mycroft call his name through the speaker once more.

"Yes?"

"Just remember: any, shall we call them hypothetical, lives John may or may not decide to take? Those will be your responsibility, as much as they will be his." Mycroft's tone is bland enough that Sherlock can't tell if his words are simply a reminder to act quickly or a thinly veiled threat. With his brother, it could be either—or both.

   
  
  


 

John strides down Baker Street, headed for the park. With the help of the Tube—and after a brief stop to grab a coffee—he’s there in the next thirty minutes. Though there are several parks within walking distance, John’s favorite is Russell Square — the park where he’d run into Mike Stamford what seems like decades ago. At least now he’s free of his cane, although who knows how long it will be before he has to use it again. He tugs at the hem of his sweater, wishing he’d thought to grab a coat before he’d stormed out of the flat; it’s late enough to consider the season winter rather than fall, and the air is bitterly cold. But the coffee will suffice for now.

He finds an empty bench far enough away from the fountain that he won’t be doused by the icy spray if the wind turns treacherous. Park visitors are few and far between in this weather: joggers, mostly, and a few brave (or foolish) mothers and their prams.

His mind is a swirling, chaotic mess. The events of the past few hours flash by inside his mind, two moments in particular. The first: seeing Sherlock alive.

Sherlock is alive.

Part of him wants nothing more to throw his arms around Sherlock and never let the man go. But the dark, enraged part of him wants retribution, punishment for all the suffering he’s been through thanks to Sherlock’s clever idea to fake his own death. Bloody, dangerous thoughts, ruthless and cruel, belong to that part.

The second moment he can’t stop recalling…He shivers, not from the cold but from the memory of Sherlock’s fingers on his skin, the full, bright look in Sherlock’s eyes. He wanted to drown in the depths of blue and never resurface, to cling to his ridiculous ideas of what that look meant. Because it calls up desires that he only allows himself to fantasise about, when he can’t help but imagine seeing that same look that he’d seen today as a prelude to much more than a gentle, innocent brush of skin on skin. God, the thought…but there’s no way that Sherlock had intended what John had seen. Besides, even with Irene, it had been she who had led Sherlock, not the other way around. For him, she had been a curiosity, a tool, nothing more. His mind reminds him that he, too, is curious to Sherlock, but he pushes the thought aside.

It’s strange to feel so much conflict after such a long time of feeling either nothing or the blazing anger that was his only respite. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Sherlock that he’d felt useless. It had been the same after he had returned from war, something Sherlock—and even Mycroft—had noticed almost instantly. He craved danger like a drug, the thrill and the daring and the risk. He craved _purpose_.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting, but the park is even emptier than before, and the dark storm clouds hanging overhead tell him why. Without a jacket, he’ll be done for, so he disposes of his coffee and checks his phone. Only an hour and a half, but long enough for his rage to subside to a simmering restlessness. He can’t go back to the flat yet, not so soon…he’ll only bite Sherlock’s head off again.

The corner Tesco nearby feels practically tropical compared to the frigid air outside. He collects the groceries he’s been neglecting: tea—the kind Sherlock prefers and he finds tolerable, milk, tinned beans, some frozen veg because surely Sherlock hasn’t had time to put any severed heads in the freezer yet. The trip is practically enjoyable, for all that it takes his mind off Sherlock and their argument even as he shops for food Sherlock might deign to eat. There’s a flicker of something like satisfaction, almost contentment…banished all too soon by a frustrating encounter with the chip and PIN machine that has him wanting to draw his gun and the icy drizzle that he can’t avoid when he rushes for the Tube.

The flat’s empty when he gets home.

He puts away the shopping and starts some tea, trying to control the shivers that are wracking his now-soaked body. While the kettle heats, he towels off and changes into flannel pajama bottoms and a thick henley. He still can’t get warm, though the tea helps. A sense of unease settles in; he checks his phone, but the notification bar shows no texts or missed calls.

Three hours later, an honest-to-goodness storm is raging outside, and he’s had enough time to realize that he’s probably going insane. Sherlock would have called, would have texted. But what if…what if Sherlock was only…

He had wanted so badly for Sherlock to be here, to be _alive_ , that he’d simply started imagining that he was. It’s the most logical explanation. Of _course_ the Sherlock he’d conjured up would call him brave—wasn’t that what he’d wanted to hear, after all? Poor, pathetic John, having conversations with dead friends. No wonder everyone looked at him like they did. He can’t stop shaking, and now it’s no longer from the cold. Is he really losing his mind? Were yesterday and today some sort of hallucination? Was he even home right now? Maybe he was still back in the hospital, concussed, imagining all of this…

For the second time in as many days, a teacup falls to the floor of 221B and shatters. He can’t breathe, recognizes that he’s having a panic attack, but he can’t calm himself, can’t focus enough to…

“John!” A voice breaks through the fog. “John, look at me!”

He looks up, and the fog recedes just a little as he tries to focus on Sherlock’s face. It’s all in his imagination, of course, but right now he really couldn’t care less.

“John, take a deep breath. Now exhale. Good, again.”

He follows Sherlock’s instructions, closing his eyes and focusing on taking one breath, then another. When he’s managed to reduce the panic to a dull throbbing anxiety, he realises he’s kneeling on the carpet between living room and kitchen, knees of his pajamas soaked with cold tea. He sits up on his heels, steadying himself by gripping the arm that’s holding him up.

“Are you really here?”

There’s a knowing look in Sherlock’s eyes at the question. He’s already put the pieces of what he’d seen together, knows the conflict John’s battling through at the moment. He’d known as soon as he’d walked into the flat and seen John on the floor. “I’m not aware of an effective method of proving my existence, as any test or method would make sense in whatever alternate version of reality you believe yourself to be experiencing.”

He closes his eyes again. “That really isn’t comforting.”

“Perhaps your imagined version of myself would be?”

He gives a shaky, mirthless laugh. “Somehow, that actually makes me feel a bit better.”

Sherlock helps John up, but he shrugs off further assistance and cleans up the spilled tea himself. They settle in to watch crap telly, some trivia game show John normally can’t stand. Sherlock, emerging from the bedroom swathed in his robe and pajamas again, takes the couch, John his armchair. Not until the commercial break does Sherlock explain where he was.

John’s watching a Weetabix advert when he speaks.

“Mrs. Hudson was unaware, as you were, of my…resurrection. As I knew you would probably like to avoid the emotional reunion, I waited until you’d left to visit her and, of course, stayed longer than intended.”

Sherlock continues to stare at the screen, even when he can feel John’s gaze on him.

“You could have texted me.”

“I’ve been alone for months, with little daily communication with anyone. Mycroft, I contacted as needed, but even then, communication was only occasional.”

_But you’re back now_ , John wants to say, and Sherlock seems to read his thoughts.

“I should not have stayed away so long without informing you where I’d be.” It’s close to apologizing, something Sherlock has had to do quite a lot lately. But now isn’t the time for that conversation, with John still shaken and wary, so different from the enraged, coldly calculating killer he’d encountered so recently. This version of John isn’t much of an improvement. To keep fluctuating between extremes as he has been must be taking its toll.

“Mmmh.” John pretends to watch the game show, but it’s obvious his thoughts are elsewhere. He looks…damaged, stressed.

Not long after the second hour of telly, he begins to nod off, jerking upright as he startles awake. Yet again there are hands helping him up, leading him to the bedroom.

“No arguments. I prefer the couch.”

Bed sounds lovely. He’s run the gamut of his emotional range today, and he feels drained, exhausted. Once upon another time, he’d hauled a drugged Sherlock into this very bed. Though Sherlock might not have remembered what he’d said, John recalled his words well: “Why would I need you?”

Yet now it’s Sherlock who sets John on the bed, helps him beneath the covers, turns out the light. He stops at the door, turns back to look at John’s huddled form underneath the blankets.

“I missed you as well.”

It’s perhaps cowardly to say it now, when John’s halfway asleep and in all likelihood won’t hear him, but he does anyway, closing the door quietly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SCO19 (formerly CO19) is Scotland Yard's version of SWAT.  
> More info on them here: http://www.eliteukforces.info/police/CO19/


	11. Chapter 11

They’ve been together for scarcely half an hour, and Sherlock and Mycroft are already arguing. Somehow it’s still less uncomfortable than the four days he’s spent in the flat with John. Much as it pains him to admit, even to himself, he doesn’t know how to fix things, to turn John back into the optimistic, exasperated yet good-tempered man he’d left behind. They’ve spent their time lounging, a few quick trips to Tesco and out to get the papers, and avoiding mentioning anything that could provoke another argument. So really, avoiding speaking about anything important, when that’s precisely what they should be doing. At least John’s phone has remained silent, except for a quick call from Lestrade about lunch at their local. Lestrade had even invited Sherlock, an invitation he’d tried unsuccessfully to decline, thanks to John’s insistence. He doubts there will be a repeat invitation after their two hours of awkward small talk and trying to get Sherlock to drink anything other than sherry, despite their insistences that it’s a drink for old women resulting in a mind-numbing conversation about Harry Potter and a Professor Trelawney. At least John had seemed less stressed, out in a familiar setting, although still not quite back to himself. The few smiles he’d managed had been a relief to see, proof that the man Sherlock knows isn’t completely gone.

“Sherlock, he’s no longer the man you knew. He’s quite possibly deranged. He could lose control at any moment.”

Sherlock sighs loudly. “ _Mycroft_ , as I’ve already asked, would he really be so upset about me faking my own death if he was at all tempted to make sure I’d succeeded?”

“And as _I’ve_ already asked, why do you refuse to consider that that temptation arose directly from the trauma you caused by your charade?”

“This conversation is ridiculously ineffective.”

“I agree. So tell me, brother dearest, why exactly you believe the opposite of what I’m telling you.”

His tea’s gone cold, but he sips at it anyway, delaying having to speak. If he was having this conversation with anyone but Mycroft, there wouldn’t _be_ a conversation—Sherlock would have talked circles around the other person while revealing nothing. But his brother has the unique gift of being able to turn the tables on him like no one else can. It’s infuriating.

“I am trying to help you, Sherlock.” Mycroft waits, then tsks and rolls his eyes. “I have a call to make. When I return, do have decided whether John’s well-being is worth trusting me. If not for your own sake, then for John’s.”

He doesn’t bother reminding Sherlock not to leave. He knows, today, that he doesn’t need to worry. This is a conversation Sherlock needs to have, for his own good—with himself. Which is why this is going to be a rather long call.

Sherlock stares at the table, refusing to acknowledge Mycroft’s departure. He sits, silent and still, until he can’t take it anymore. He can lie and deny all he wants to Mycroft, but he’s never been able to do the same to himself the way ordinary people can.

He slouches in the rigid antique chair, ignoring its squeaks of protest, and steeples his fingers, closing his eyes as he retreats into his mind palace. It’s a structured chaos of formulas and pieces of information stored for later, with no real structure manifested outside of cataloguing. But there’s a space carved out for John, and it’s this that he focuses on, shoving all else aside to focus here. What he finds is both comforting and unsettling.

There’s the warm glow of John’s admiration, his approval, his companionship, and an unwavering faith in him like he’s never known. That’s not to say John hadn’t questioned him, at times practically badgering him, yet never once had he doubted him….until Sherlock had made it easy. Until Sherlock had led him to the edge and told him to walk over it, using that faith against itself. It’s an apt metaphor, considering.

It’s his fault, he knows that, if fault belongs to anyone. His arrogance, his superiority (well, he _is_ superior, but he knows he flaunts it in a manner disdainful to others) has put them into this situation. Moriarty was uniquely obsessed, but if it hadn’t been him, someone else would have stepped up and offered to put him in his place, taken the challenge he’d advertised with every solved case, with every smart remark or rapid deduction. It’s the penalty for the few who have got close to him, that eventually there would be collateral damage for those who dared brave his company for any extended period.

The people around him get hurt, so why is it so singularly devastating that he’s been unable to prevent John from experiencing the inevitable? Perhaps because this time, the blame is solely on his shoulders—it’s because of him, and no one else, that the only way for John to cope with his guilt and feelings of inadequacy is by becoming exactly the type of man he had helped stop.

_“Every single case, every clue, every step, every moment, I had to struggle to keep up with you. I wasn’t good enough.”_

He had expected John to be better than everyone else but had treated him the same way he treated Lestrade or any of his other few acquaintances who weren’t completely insufferable. He had made John believe himself better, then torn down that belief even as he thought to bolster it. He had made John believe he was special, favored, and thus the magnified impact of being, as he saw it, unable to save Sherlock from a despair so deep it led to suicide. Every reassurance, every word of praise, was in that moment a mockery, one that would haunt John constantly with his inadequacy when he had tried so very hard to believe the opposite. Thus Sherlock’s assurances the other night had been nothing to John but more empty praise he couldn’t possibly deserve, because all of this had, in a way, happened before. Of course he’d recognized his role in John’s transformation from the start, but not until now did he truly comprehend, and it’s enough to make him hate himself like he hasn’t in a very, very long time.

He needs to set things right, but not just out of guilt. Certainly guilt is a large part of his motivation. But he’s known for a long time what his true motivations are concerning John Watson, and it looks like it’s finally time to stop hiding from himself.

It had been when John shot the cabbie that Sherlock had wholly and instantly trusted him. He’s been flattered by John’s attention, so much less irksome than Sally’s flirting early in _their_ acquaintance, or Molly’s nervous, hesitating attempts at the same. John is steady, observant, trusting. No matter how many times he’d had the chance to turn and run from Sherlock, to give up on him as so many others had, he had remained loyal. He’s put up with Sherlock’s tantrums and idiosyncrasies like no other man could.

It’s an admiration, a loyalty, that Sherlock craves to deserve. But to admit that he cares what John thinks of him is to acknowledge what he’s avoided for most of his life…that he does care what people think. Or rather, what one person in particular thinks.

John is good at things that Sherlock will never be able to be good at. He understands people on an emotional level that Sherlock is incapable of reaching, even if he can parse its nuances to the limits of his own understanding. He knows that people are motivated by jealously, lust, greed, but he doesn’t truly understand the devastating impact of these emotions as one intimately familiar with, and experienced in them, does. But John is such a person, and he bridges that gap for Sherlock, helps him comprehend what he misses by eschewing relationships, bonds, ties to others.

John is good, in a way Sherlock can never be. He follows a moral code that guides him, something Sherlock had abandoned in favor of whatever rules allow him to succeed.

No, he doesn’t just need John. And this is it, the crux of the matter, the reason he needs to save John. It’s improbable, but not impossible—because he knows it’s the truth, and he can lie to anyone but himself.

He doesn’t just need John, he… _wants_ John.

He wants that companionship, that understanding that passes between them in a simple glance, when John reads him as no one else can. John humanises him, acts as a tether between Sherlock and the world, a guide point. It’s the loyalty, the sheer faith in Sherlock in his abilities and the desire to earn that trust and respect, that he wants.

But he wants more than that. These thoughts that float to the surface now are the ones he’s hidden, the ones he can’t possibly mention to Mycroft, lest his words be passed on to their subject. He _craves_ John, like nicotine, like the harder drugs he’s left behind. It’s a feeling he’s had before, but never this intense. It would take so little, the next time they stand close, to lean forward and bridge the gap with lips and teeth and tongue, hands roaming John’s tanned skin as if searching out the answer to why he finds the man so irresistible. Of the few times he’s wanted to actually commit murder in his life, most of the potential victims were John’s insipid girlfriends, simpering women who couldn’t possibly offer what Sherlock can. Jealousy has been such an odd experience—he’d find it novel but for its source. No, he wants John all to himself. He wants to watch John come undone at his hands, trembling and gasping and…He shifts in his seat, trying to banish the images his oh-so-helpful mind has provided. Now isn’t the time to dwell, though he’d certainly like to, and definitely not the place.

Moriarty had been right all along. He hadn’t threatened to burn the heart out of him because of Sherlock’s lust for John, though he’d recognized it too. No, what made the man’s threat so infuriating was that he’d seen what Sherlock had been blind to. That the cold, unfeeling, robotic Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, in love with one John Watson.

He buries his face in his hands, a rare moment of visible vulnerability. He’s overwhelmed, suffocated by emotions too raw, too new, for him to process. Sherlock has tried to keep himself distant, knows better than to form attachment, and yet…and yet…John. Loyal, strong, caring John is the aim of his affections, good in ways Sherlock could never be. He lets out a sound, something like a laugh.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft has returned. Sherlock looks up from his hands to see Mycroft settling back into his chair, an unfathomable look on his face. “Well?”

This is a conversation he would do just about anything to avoid, but John’s well-being, as Mycroft said, is at stake. So he speaks.

“You were right—”

“—About?”

“Would you be quiet and let me finish?” Of course, Mycroft would be his infuriating self even as Sherlock prepares to tell him something he’s barely admitted to himself. But he steadies himself, and meets Mycroft’s eyes.

“Regardless of James Moriarty’s involvement, the effect of my death on John is my fault and no one else’s. I should have trusted him, because what I did…John deserved better.”

Mycroft nods, but doesn’t speak.

“You asked me why I believe John Watson can be redeemed. I believe what is so obviously contrary to any logical observer because, in matters concerning John, I have not acted logically in quite some time. He still is a good man, and I believe I can return him to himself, because if he wasn’t still that man, I…” He swallows heavily, hands trembling, words caught in his throat. “If he wasn’t still that man, I wouldn’t love him.”

Mycroft actually drops his teacup. “I—well, when I asked you to be honest with me, I never thought you’d actually admit that your feelings for Captain Watson were what I suspected.”

Sherlock gives him a wry smile, barely a twist to his mouth. “Now that I’ve told you what you already know…”

“Sherlock, I am in the singular position of being unable to take care of John as I usually would those who cross me, because I will not be responsible for taking from you the one person you have shown yourself to care about. But I cannot allow John to continue his…current career path. So I propose a trade.”

“If you were willing to offer me John in exchange for Solomon, you could have done so several times in the recent past.” It’s obvious now, Mycroft’s plan, what he should have seen all along. John will bring Solomon down, in exchange for amnesty.

“But then I wouldn’t have had the chance to hear that so very touching confession of love, now would I?” Mycroft just laughs at Sherlock’s rude gesture.

“John is convinced that even though he knows I am alive, he’ll be unable to stop himself from seeking the refuge of hunting a target.”

Mycroft sighs, the glee gone from his face. “Or it’s possible that, even after Solomon is eliminated, John won’t be able to face what he’s done. But I think perhaps we’re planning too far ahead. Right now, we need to take away John’s access to easy targets. It will buy him, and us, some time. The step from killing those he sees as deserving to committing murder of innocents with no just cause is one that I cannot believe John will take quickly, or lightly, no matter how mentally unstable he will be.”

“That isn’t what you were saying an hour ago, Mycroft.”

“Well, I had to make you believe the situation more dire, how else was I going to get you to tell me anything?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and stands. “I trust I’ve revealed enough for one day. I’ll speak with John about Solomon.”

Mycroft stands as well, mopping at a splotch of tea on his jacket. “If you need anything, I’ll provide it.” He sets the handkerchief down, looks Sherlock in the eye, holds his gaze. “Sherlock, he’s…good for you. And I do think, if anyone can succeed in returning him to sanity, it’s you.”

Sherlock nods, discomfited by the sincerity in Mycroft’s voice. It’s a rare moment when he remembers that Mycroft is his brother and what that actually means, when they aren’t busy sniping at each other.

But wait. “You’re going to tell him what I said, aren’t you.” His heart pounds at the thought of Mycroft revealing what Sherlock has told him, planning ways to evade the inevitable because he can’t tell John, he—

“Absolutely not.”

“What?” Mycroft’s planning something. He looks too gleeful not to be plotting.

“Why would I spoil the fun of _you_ having to tell him?” The grin on Mycroft’s face is obscene. He’s tempted to wipe it away with his fist, but settles for a very satisfying pout instead.

The grin fades when he checks his phone after Sherlock turns and heads to the door. There’s a message that confirms what he’d dreaded. Even without his ultimatums, Sherlock is running out of time. He sighs and straightens his tie, reaches for his coat, signals to Anthea to call the car.

John’s killed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million billion thanks to [snogandagrope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/profile) for beta reading!


	12. Chapter 12

John returns home to Baker Street, shedding his wool coat and suit jacket at the door. Sherlock’s still at tea with Mycroft—probably still trying to decide what to do with him. The flat is quiet, the late sun turning everything a faded gold. It’s peaceful, a contrast that’s not lost on him as he heads to the bedroom to change out of his blood-stained clothes.

He hasn’t even finished taking off his shirt when the door downstairs opens and there are heavy, quick footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock’s back, then. For a moment he panics, looking for somewhere to hide his bloody clothes, and then freezes. Sherlock no doubt already knows exactly where he’s been and what he’s been doing, and if not surely Mycroft had some idea. So why is he all of a sudden trying to hide?

But then, Sherlock is in the flat, puttering around the kitchen as he calls for John, who can’t bring himself to answer. Somehow, Sherlock knows he’s home, though, because his footsteps come closer, and then he’s standing in the doorway of the bedroom. Sherlock freezes, takes in his red-splattered clothes as if he really hadn’t expected to find John…or hadn’t expected to see such blatant evidence of what John had been doing while he had met with his brother.

He meets Sherlock’s gaze as coolly as he’s able, but he can’t help the unconscious tightening of his jaw when Sherlock suddenly slams his fist into the door hard enough to splinter the wood. It’s a rare physical show of anger for the detective, and it, like the crackling anger in his eyes, belies his otherwise calm demeanor.

“Who was it this time?”

“Do you really need to know?”

Sherlock snorts in derision at the question. “If I needed to know, I would.”

“Then why bother asking?” John turns away again, fussing with the buttons on his shirt, hesitating before pulling it off and chucking it into the laundry bag. The service he’d arranged doesn’t ask questions, and if a shirt is stained beyond redemption, a crisp new one arrives in the return bag. The t-shirt underneath he’ll just discard, but something stops him from stripping it off in front of Sherlock, who’s moved past him to study the alley below from the bedroom window.

“Did you need something?” His tone is harsher than he’d intended, but Sherlock just…infuriates him. He’s standing there so calmly when his flatmate is discarding clothes covered in the blood of someone he’d killed scarcely an hour ago. He should be furious, appalled, anything but calm and collected.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, only turns back and watches him with a searching, intense look, as though he expects John to be able to read his thoughts. There’s a hesitance there, too—a caution John had never noticed in him before he’d…left. But he’s seen it plenty lately, and he _really_ wishes Sherlock would just talk to him. A niggling voice in the back of his mind reminds him that every time Sherlock has tried, John has just gotten angry and pushed him away. He does his best to ignore it.

John finally throws up his hands. “Fine. Keep quiet. I’m going to take a bath.” He stalks away, slamming the bathroom door behind him. He abandons the rest of his clothes on the floor and runs water hot enough to fog the small room in a few moments. A glance in the mirror above the sink shows that his eye is almost back to normal, only a slight tinge of green remaining, but there are dark circles under both eyes and his mouth is tense with stress. He rolls his eyes and turns away to the tub and sinks up to his neck into the practically scalding water.

He sighs, letting his aches be soothed by the heat. The tension drains from him as he ducks his head briefly and wipes the water and damp hair from his face. He hears Sherlock walk past, pausing briefly by the door before continuing to the kitchen towards the living room, his steps fading away. The early evening is quiet, few car horns and sirens making it through to him from outside, and for a few brief minutes he revels in it, relaxing like he hasn’t in a very long time.

But it isn’t long before his mind has other plans.

Namely thinking about Sherlock.

Even on assignment today, he couldn’t get the man out of his mind. It was a constant struggle to not to be distracted by their conversation the other day and have his inattention affect his work. He’d admitted some of his worst fears and deepest secrets to Sherlock, and he’d taken everything John said in stride—not reacted in anger, or disgust, or horror—simply accepted what John had become: damaged through little fault of his own, at least to begin with. John had wanted acknowledgment of his pain, and when Sherlock had tried to provide it, tried to bolster John’s failing sense of control, of usefulness, John had pushed him away, refused to listen to what he so desperately wants to hear.

God, he’s conflicted. In one moment, he wants to pull Sherlock closer, and in the other, he wants to shove him away. He wants Sherlock’s reassurance but denies it to avoid appearing weak to a man who already knows more about him than anyone. The desire for retribution is gone, replaced bit by bit with an overwhelming desire for much, much more.

The panic he’d felt the other day, when he’d believed Sherlock to be an invention of his own grieving mind, shows how much he’s built his world around the man, relying on him for his own sense of self. John Watson has no place in a world without Sherlock Holmes, not now, not after everything. And that reliance had transformed into something else, a desire he’s barely allowed himself to think about, even as it had already begun to slip through the cracks of his denial. At some point, it had wound its tendrils around his heart when he hadn’t noticed, and now it’s too far too late to loosen their grip even if he wanted to.

He’s completely, utterly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

It had started a long time ago, but he’d only ever realized how bad it was when suddenly, the object of his longing was gone from his reach. Just knowing the potential for him, with a simple word or—fuck—a quick press of his mouth to Sherlock’s, to change everything was somehow reassuring. He could wait, telling himself there would always be more time, more opportunities. But then Sherlock was gone, and all he could do was curse at himself and rail at fate for taking away the chance, when he knows he should have done _something_ , anything, if only to know for sure.

And then Sherlock had come back…and he still can’t bring himself to act, to tip the scales and take that chance. He’s a coward and he knows it. He scrubs his damp hands over his face, muffling the noise of frustration that escapes him. What is it that’s keeping him from acting? Fear? That Sherlock will react badly, that making a move could very well end their partnership, such as it is? Could he live with that, risking what he has for the chance of more?

He feels like he’s about to fly apart into a million fractured pieces. Part of him wants to take that step forward, to believe that there’s a possibility that this obsession isn’t one-sided, to view the gentle touch of Sherlock’s hand was more than just friendly concern. But there’s a much stronger, more convincing part that’s telling him everything he doesn’t want to hear: Sherlock may not think he’s a sad excuse for a human being, but that doesn’t necessarily equate to everything John wants.

John slips under, holding his breath in the warm cocoon of the water and listening to the odd echoing distortion of noise from below the surface. It’s calming, clarifying, and he stays under until his lungs begin to ache.

When he pads into the kitchen, Sherlock is waiting in his armchair, eyes unfocused and staring. It’s far from unusual, so John begins to busy himself with tea.

“John, I need to speak with you.”

Sherlock’s piercing gaze has returned and is settled on him. John’s hand stops in midair, a scoop of tea leaves grasped in his fingers halted on its way to a mug. It’s the tone more than anything that catches his attention: not imperious and superior, but almost pleading, or as close to it as John’s ever heard from Sherlock ( _don’t think about it: begging John to do something for me, I’m a fraud, don’t—_ ) He puts down the teaspoon.

“What is it?”

“I spoke with Mycroft about you today.”

“What?” Irritation flits through him. “Sherlock, why the hell d’you—”

“—John, please.” That tone again, and when he sits in his own armchair, that same searching look. “He’s offered you a deal.”

John snorts derisively, and Sherlock’s mouth tenses into a thin line. “John, listen to me. I am trying to help you, Mycroft is trying to help you. It’s simple: amnesty, in exchange for your assistance in bringing down Solomon.”

The idea startles a laugh out of him. “Right, because it’s that simple.”

“Mycroft needs an inside man, someone willing to get their hands dirty, a willingness you’ve certainly shown lately.” John falls silent, so Sherlock continues. “You said you felt useless, but you’re the only one who’s gained his trust, the only person whom Mycroft _can_ use. Don’t you see, John, it’s a perfect solution!”

“Have you ever considered that maybe I don’t want your help, hmm? That maybe I’m sick of being used by you and your brother and by everyone else who needs something from me—”

“John.” Sherlock reaches out and takes John’s face in his hands, and his words splutter to a halt at the completely unexpected contact. John can barely keep himself from…he doesn’t know what. It’s agonizing, wanting like this again for the first time in so long. After so long trying to ignore and bury and suppress everything he feels for this completely infuriating, brilliant man, resisting the urge to lean forward and bridge that gap is getting more difficult with each moment that passes. But then Sherlock goes wide-eyed and yanks his hands away, as if he’s just now realised he’d moved at all.

When John speaks, it’s resigned. “Sherlock, we’ve already been over this. What if…” The thought that suddenly occurs to him is grim. “…what if we do this, and I can’t stop, after? What if I hurt someone, someone who hasn’t done anything, someone _innocent_ , because I can’t…”

His words fail at the thought. He’s had no problem doing anything Solomon asks of him, but he’s never considered that the people he’s killed might have deserved otherwise. He’s let his rage guide him, blinded to the fact that what he’s doing is wrong, allowing his grief and anger to tear through the morality he’s always let guide his actions.

Not even a day before he’d protested that he wouldn’t give up dealing death to those on Solomon’s list, but there’s no schedule for realisations like this one. Something had finally broken through, and whatever finally reached him, the impact is tremendous.

And then, Sherlock’s words cut through the panic and devastation.

“You won’t.”

“How can you say that, and sound so bloody sure? Jesus, Sherlock, I just killed someone, I’ve killed _over a dozen people_ and you’re telling me I’m just going to be able to stop?!”

“Yes, you are, because I am going to help you, and you will survive this, just as you always do.” The force of Sherlock’s belief is another blow, the intensity of his gaze unavoidable. “We are going to destroy Solomon, and the rest can wait. Moran, all of it.”

“Why do you continue to have any faith in me?” John asks, dropping his head into his hands, trying not to feel lighter at the thought of a way out of this mess he’s gotten himself into.

“I might ask you the same question.”

John laughs humorlessly, and his eyes are bleak when he looks back up. “Because…well, look at you, you’re _you_.”

“And at risk of sounding inanely repetitive, you, John, are _you_.”

“What?” The words land like a blow, and the air is knocked from John’s lungs.

“You, John Watson, are a good man. Better than I will ever be.” Sherlock’s leaning in closer, and John can’t stop himself from doing the same, because it’s as if Sherlock is…but he can’t be, God, he can’t be leaning in to let his mouth land on John’s because if he is, John may not survive, now that he knows the hunger that’s coursing through him, craving that contact.

“Sherlock—”

“And I…I cannot allow you to continue to blame yourself, because neither of us is blameless. I’ve held you to a standard that you’ve always risen to meet, but I’ve treated you as far less worthy than you are. And if my treatment of you has led you to believe yourself less worthy, than I am truly more at fault than I ever realised, and for that I…apologise.”

“What?” John blinks in surprise, never expecting to actually hear Sherlock say those words. “What did you say?” he whispers hoarsely again.

“I…” Sherlock’s eyes wander down to his mouth—no, he’s not imagining it—and back up to meet his glance. “I’m sorry, John.” There’s so much regret and sorrow in those bright eyes that he feels their gaze like a blow.

“I know it’s too much to ask, after what I’ve done, but…I need you to trust me. Trust that I can help you, if you can’t trust yourself. Trust my faith in you, just as you always have.”

It isn’t that he can’t say no, but that he doesn’t want to. Even after everything Sherlock has put him through, God help him, he still wants to believe he can be that man Sherlock thinks he is, good and honorable and brave. If that’s what it takes to end this, then he’ll cling to Sherlock’s faith like a drowning man and pray that his trust isn’t misplaced this time.

“All right. All right, I’ll do it.” He closes his eyes, letting the realisation settle in, that he might find his way out of what his life’s become after all. For the first time since that day at St. Barts, he feels cautiously hopeful.

When he opens his eyes, he thinks he sees something warm and fond in Sherlock’s eyes, but the man pulls away and leaps up before John can be sure. “I’ll inform Mycroft, then, though I’m sure he’s already aware somehow.”

“Sherlock—” John stands reaches out a hand to Sherlock’s shoulder and halts him in his pacing. “I just…thank you. For, well.”

Sherlock is about to reply when there’s a brief knock at the door. Sherlock pulls away, seeming reluctant to John although that could just be wishful thinking, and opens the door to reveal Mrs. Hudson holding an incredibly full tray bearing a pot of tea and about three meals.

“I thought you boys might be a bit peckish, it being supper time, and thought I’d bring you a few things, see how you are.” She beams at Sherlock, who actually gives her a smile in return, and John loves how his face lights up when actually allows himself to show an emotion once in a while.

Mrs. Hudson stays into the wee hours, fetching dessert and fussing about in the kitchen to make more tea, even slipping a splash of brandy into the pot with a wink at John. He wasn’t the only one who grieved Sherlock. Sherlock lets her fuss, calmly answering her every time she asks if he’s warm enough, if he’s had enough to eat. It’s the least he can do to soothe her, and it’s clear that he knows he owes her this and so much more. John watches and laughs, savoring the warmth from the fire and the brandy and the company.

When he closes the door behind her, Sherlock’s already headed for the couch. “Sherlock, I’m headed upstairs, so would you please just sleep in your own bloody bed instead of on the couch? I’m well aware how uncomfortable it is.”

Sherlock turns around and studies him over his shoulder, watching him pick up the last of the tea things and setting them in the sink. His back is turned, but he hears Sherlock pick himself up and walk through the kitchen to his room, pausing just outside the door, his hand on the doorknob.

“Good night, John.”

He turns around to meet Sherlock’s eyes, full of sated warmth and a hint of what would be hesitance, nervousness, in someone else’s eyes but rare to see in Sherlock’s.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

They watch each other a moment more, then Sherlock is closing the door and John is heading upstairs to his room. His things are much as he’d left them, the room unused except for his brief visits for clothes or one of the few books he keeps up here instead of in the living room. The sheets are cold, stiff, but clean, and he collapses gratefully into bed, exhausted by all that’s happened in so short a time. This morning already feels like a week ago, and the strain of trying to hold himself together is draining. He’s forgotten what it’s like to just _be_ , to know who he is and what his purpose is.

And the sheer amount of willpower it’s taken not to let himself act on everything he’s realised he feels for Sherlock is astounding. He can’t be imagining those glances, the heat in Sherlock’s eyes, but even if he knows he’s deluding himself, he’s too gone to care, relishing every touch and glance even if he’s the only one giving them meaning.

John tries to withstand the desire that’s spreading through him, making his twist and turn in his bed, but he’s held up that front all day, and it’s too much to stand in the darkness of his room, knowing that Sherlock is sleeping below him, perhaps even struggling as he is right now. It’s a fantasy, but one that tips him over the edge at the thought, and he closes his eyes, head tilting back as his hand slides oh so slowly down his stomach, under the layers of sheets and his waistband to take himself in hand, already more than half hard and damp with precome.

This is everything, and nothing, like the last time he’d touched himself to the thought of his flatmate. Now he has hope, fragile though it may be, and it surges through his veins because Sherlock is alive, right below him, perhaps allowing his long, nimble fingers to grip his own shaft and slide to the thought of John’s hands on him, John’s mouth sucking bruising marks into his skin, a trail of bites from collarbone to hip, before John laps as the smooth skin of his cock and takes it in, swallowing deep and making Sherlock writhe and moan and beg for more.

John allows himself a quiet whine at the thought that Sherlock might be just as affected as he is, even as he tells himself it’s an illusion. His hips buck off the bed as he jerks himself roughly to the thought of Sherlock’s pale, smooth skin under his own calloused hands.

 

 

 

Sherlock can’t sleep.

He’d allowed himself too many liberties today, been caught too many times simply watching John, and that slip-up when he’s reached out and held John’s face…it’s as if now that he’s realised what he wants, his body is going to stop at nothing to achieve it. But nothing is that simple, he knows this, even if some lust-addled part of his mind is attempting to convince him otherwise.

He’d missed nights like this one, him and John and Mrs. Hudson, just like before, her fluttering concerned mothering and John’s slow smile and flushed cheeks, warm from alcohol and the fire. Seeing John like that, content and satiated instead of tense and wary, brings him contentment as well. He’d had to fight himself from reaching over and tasting the brandy on John’s mouth, the warm dampness of his breath. Would John reciprocate?

For all that he knows of human behaviour, emotions are messy, complicated things that confound him. There’s no logic in why John Watson of the people in the world makes him flush with arousal and love and longing, and he just as he cannot see the logic in this, he cannot read any signs John is giving that his feelings are returned. Lust is easy to diagnose: the way John’s breathing had sped up, his eyes dilated, when Sherlock had leaned close earlier—even the logic agrees that John desires him.

His thought process is interrupted, driven to a stuttering halt, at the thought. He knows the battle is lost when the thought of John wanting him sends blood racing to his groin. He’s so rarely allowed himself the luxury, preferring to focus on cases rather than the mess of emotional distractions, that it hits him twice as hard now, how much he wishes John was here in his bed, that it’s John’s hand reaching to stroke him to full hardness.

Perhaps John is upstairs, in his own bed, tortured by the thought of Sherlock pinning him down, taking control and using that power to wring pleasure from him like he’s never experienced. The thought makes him gasp, and he strokes himself faster, picturing John wrecked and pleading. Or perhaps John would pin him down, tease him until he’s begging like he’s never begged before, his body aching to be filled. He smears pre-ejaculate on his fingers and reached further, tentatively pushing first one finger, then two, inside himself, imagining John’s hand teasing him open while John’s mouth presses damply against his own.

 

 

 

John’s utterly wrecked, his hand slipping faster over his shaft as he pictures Sherlock on his hands and knees, waiting for John to fuck him. He smothers his moans in his hand, trying to stay quiet, but the thought of being inside Sherlock is wringing noises from him that he’s never heard himself make before, desperate noises that only fuel his arousal.

He whines Sherlock’s name, and then he’s coming, turning over to pour hot and thick into the sheets as he fucks against the mattress, crying out into his pillow in a desperate attempt to muffle the noise.

 

 

 

Sherlock’s fingers find his prostate, and he arches up with a gasp, feet planted on the mattress and legs spread as his other hand continues its slick slide from the root to the tip of his cock, rapid and rough. His pillows still carry John’s lingering smell, combined with sweat and arousal, and the mix is heady. He imagines John’s weight on him, pressing him into the bed, imagines John thrusting into him faster and faster as his own hand moves accordingly, until his breath stutters to a halt with one last harsh inhale and he’s coming, head tilted back in a soundless gasp as he soaks his hand, warm, thick liquid in pulse after pulse while his orgasm shakes through him.

His limbs feel like lead when he finally relaxes. He manages to clean himself up before he sinks into sleep, deciding to come to terms with what he’s just done in the morning.

 

 

 

For a moment, John contemplates sneaking down to the bathroom, but the thought of waking Sherlock is terrifying. One look at him, still flushed and disheveled, and Sherlock will know exactly what he’s done. So he makes do with tissues and adjusts the bedding where he’s pulled the fitted sheet off the mattress.

He’ll deal with everything in the morning, Solomon and Sherlock and all of it. For now, he allows himself to sleep, more peacefully than he has in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A giant bucket of thanks to [snogandagrope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/profile) for beta reading!


	13. Chapter 13

John sneaks out to the shops early the next morning, while Sherlock’s door remains closed. They hardly have any food left in the flat, but honestly, he’s still not sure he can face Sherlock. He takes his time, not even minding the struggle with the chip and PIN machine (three tries before it reads his card). He even gets off the Tube a few stops early and slowly walks the rest of the way home. Besides, the streets are relatively quiet, and the air is just cold enough to feel refreshing.

When he gets back to the flat, he carefully makes his way up the stairs and is about to reach for the doorknob when the door swings wide open. Sherlock’s there, wearing his dressing gown and pajamas, and the blinking, owlish look and rumpled hair of someone who’s just gotten out of bed.

“You didn’t get off the Tube at Baker Street.”

John isn’t surprised that Sherlock knew he’d been out; even though he tried to be quiet, the stairs have the squeak of wood that’s been warped by decades of use. And the short walk from the Baker Street stop wouldn’t leave him out of breath and slightly sweaty. He can see why Sherlock gets so frustrated with people; the longer he spends with Sherlock and his methods, the more becomes obvious.

“Fancied a walk. Weather’s nice.”

Sherlock slinks into the kitchen after him like a cat, poking through the bags and scoffing at John’s choices. At his third disgruntled noise, John yanks the bags away.

“I’ll have tea on in a bit, just let me put these away.”

Sherlock wanders away to sprawl on the couch, ruffling his curls absently. John smiles to himself at the dramatics and puts the kettle on. With him in the kitchen and Sherlock sulking in the living room, it’s almost as if everything’s all right. The intensity with which he wants just that – everything to be all right, even if so much has happened – is staggering. His new occupation may be a way to ease the persistent flickers of grief and rage and guilt, but another balm for his pain is the man sitting on the couch alive and well. He can’t have both, but if Sherlock can truly help him – like they’ve helped so many people, together – then he won’t have to choose.

His thoughts are interrupted by the screeches of a violin. If it was anyone else, Sherlock’s movements – rapid strides across the room as he glides the bow across the strings – would be called nervous pacing, but John knows better. The furrowed brow and purposeful steps are the hallmarks of deep, concentrated thought. Though Sherlock’s body is in the living room of 221B, his conscious brain is far away, prowling the corridors and passageways of his mind palace even as his hands produce soaring, sweeping melodies and crescendos of notes.

John brings in the tea, sets it to the side where it’s safe from Sherlock, and retreats to his armchair to do some thinking of his own. He catches himself watching Sherlock for several minutes before making a serious effort to stare at the fireplace instead, studying the charred logs and debris before realizing that it’s cold enough to go ahead and light a fire. Building one will give him something to do while Sherlock comes up with a plan. He moves slowly from his chair to the floor, still tense from last night’s exertion and the stress of bottled emotions – despite the opportunities to unleash his anger on those who have crossed his employer. His hands tremble slightly as he piles scraps of paper and small twigs in the fireplace. Even while away in his mind palace, Sherlock can become easily distracted by him thinking too loudly, as the man puts it, so he tries to calm his thoughts and emotions by imagining a smooth glass sea. He fumbles with the matches, heart starting to pound as the sound of them striking the mantle brick turns into the sharp retort of gunfire and his vision blurs…but then the kindling catches crackles into a proper fire, and he exhales in relief.

The image is gone, but it’s taken any illusion of calm domesticity with it. John’s last job was yesterday, which buys some time, but he has no idea how long it will take Sherlock to think of some brilliant plan to save him from Solomon and, somehow, from himself. John would try to help, given that he’s often offered some small interjection that Sherlock has found helpful to a case, but he doesn’t trust himself to offer guidance in this particular situation.

 _It must be easy for him_ , John thinks as he moves back to his chair to escape the fire’s heat True, it must be difficult to adapt to a world that doesn’t see and observe every detail the way Sherlock does, but life must be so effortless when everything is laid out in clear paths and pieces, like the parts of a gun ready to be put back together by the muscle memory of skilled hands. Sherlock has told him again and again that he values John’s skills, but when John watches Sherlock like this – pacing here at the flat with violin in hand or striding through in a grimy alley, coat collar high – he can practically _see_ the great gears of Sherlock’s mind turning.

John glances at Sherlock again and tries to tamp the shame that spikes through him, suggesting yet again that he’s no match for such a man in work or otherwise. His hand trembles again as he reaches for his lukewarm tea and sips quietly, closing his eyes to clear his mind.

When Sherlock’s violin screeches to a halt, John looks up, but the man is facing away, his expression hidden. But it seems Sherlock was only pausing before launching the bow back across the strings to sing powerful, deep notes. His eyes are closed when he turns around, but there’s the slight furrow of a frown across his face that John recognizes as frustration.

John wishes he could retreat to watch unseen, fade into the curtains and let his eyes follow Sherlock as he paces, without fear of rebuke or self-judgment. He itches with restless energy, even though he’s only been sitting for maybe half an hour. But there’s nowhere for him to go; he won’t retreat up into his room like an errant child (and face the emotions of last night), he can’t go back out without attracting Sherlock’s attention and questions…and he can’t contact Solomon.

He understands a little about Sherlock’s addictions now. He knows consciously that he doesn’t _need_ another job from Solomon – evident by the balance of his bank account – but his itch yearns for a particular method of scratching like a magnet seeking out its opposite. He remembers suddenly, through the fog of decades, a moment when he was a child of five or six. He’d bitten his nails to the quick, chewing any new growth back until his cuticles bled. His mother had found him and brought him to sit on his parents’ bed while she soothed the red, infected skin with cooling ointment and carefully applied small bandages to his fingers. She hadn’t scolded him, the way his teachers did when they caught him nibbling, only sighed in exasperation and reminded him that he really shouldn’t bite his nails. But then she’d tentatively asked if there was something worrying him, and her tone had given him pause. His mother had spoken to him in a way adults rarely addressed children, as though he understood her and could be treated as one of them. He’d shaken his head and told her no, but the look of understanding and love in her eyes had made him throw his arms around her neck, his bandages scraping the fabric of her shirt. It had taken almost a year after that, but he had gradually let his fingers heal and relished his parents’ pride at overcoming his bad habit.

John is no longer so co-dependent but yet, he thinks, his craving still comes down to approval. He’s no longer a child – he’s seen the hell of war and the color of blood splashed on clean walls like paint – but it’s still about _someone_. Just like before, John wants to be better not for himself, but for Sherlock. Like the bliss he’s seen on Sherlock’s features with a needle firmly inserted into a vein, John craves the warmth of Sherlock’s approval even as he struggles to be free of the craving. He’s being pulled first in one direction, then another. Before Sherlock’s disappearance and its aftermath, he knows that the pull toward Sherlock would win out, but now he’s not so sure. Regardless, he can’t use Solomon as an escape so soon after his last assignment.

The sudden quiet breaks him out of his thoughts again. Sherlock’s tossed his violin – worth more than several London flats combined – onto the couch, lightly but clearly in a fit of pique.

“Think! There must be something, some window of opportunity…Mycroft will want to avoid unnecessary casualties—”

John scoffs. Sherlock’s glazed eyes are at least facing in his direction and he’s talking _and_ moving, rather than eerily quiet and still, indicating it’s generally a safer time to interrupt. “At this point, I’m not sure he and I would agree on what’s considered unnecessary.”

He’s surprised when his comment draws a small smirk from Sherlock. “Yes, we may all have different definitions of that term at this point.” Before John can respond, though, Sherlock frowns slightly and retreats, sweeping away to the windows to study the street, clasping his hands behind his back in a rigid posture.

It’s a strange reaction, even for Sherlock. He’s often let his guard down with John, so why would he now correct himself?

“So…any, er, ideas?” John braces himself for Sherlock’s response. It’s a bold question to ask him when he’s concentrating, but John’s confused and wants to keep Sherlock talking while he sorts it out.

“No, John, none whatsoever. I have absolutely no ideas, apart from the thirty-two I’ve already hypothesized and dismissed since I woke this morning.” Sherlock’s tone is chilly, but John was expecting as much.

“Anything I can help with?”

“Any information you have that I’d find useful, I’ve already been able to surmise. Besides, you’ve done enough.”

His glib remark cuts a little deeper than the many others Sherlock has made before, like a short sliver of ice just piercing the skin. Then, to John’s surprise, Sherlock turns to him after a brief pause.

“John—”

“S’all right. I’ve got some wash to do, I’ll leave you to it.” It’s true – his sheets need laundering, after last night – but it still feels like like he’s running away.

Unseen, Sherlock takes a step towards the stairs, then hesitates and returns to watching the street.

 

 

 

 

 

Two days later, Sherlock prowls the flat like a caged tiger, wearing the same dressing robe and shooing Mrs Hudson out of the flat when she brings them tea and dares to suggest he might want to change into a cleaner robe and pajamas. John tries to apologize, but Mrs Hudson is still wary of him and leaves almost in tears.

Then, a few hours hours later, he and Sherlock are shouting at each other. Sherlock had locked himself in the bedroom to tinker with a chemical experiment that had produced copious amounts of thick white smoke. He’d snapped at John when asked how it would help with Solomon, arguing that he didn’t have time to explain himself and John wouldn’t understand anyway. When John had reminded Sherlock of his medical degree, things got out of hand.

“Care to recite the Hippocratic Oath, _Doctor_ Watson?”

This time, anger won out over shame, and it had taken everything in him not to smash Sherlock’s glass pipes and tubes and bottles to bits. He’d squeezed his hands into fists, breathing rapidly, and tried to let the tide of red sweeping his vision subside – then imagined grabbing Sherlock, forcing the man’s smarmy mouth into silence with his own, pinning him against the table to show him exactly how much of his anatomy classes he remembered…

“Enough. I’m going out.”

John turned and left, slamming the door behind him…then let out a deep sigh, hoping he’d managed to escape before Sherlock had noticed the raging erection tenting the front of his trousers. Their tailored fit, much more snug than his baggy khakis, leaves little to the imagination, but at least his new coat hides everything from neck to knees.

On his way out of the flat, he sends a falsely casual text to Greg.

 

_Fancy a pint? Without the old lady this time?_

 

As if John has anyone else to go to the pub with – as if Greg has anyone waiting at home for him. As if he doesn’t still scare Greg, even after their last pub trip with Sherlock had ended without him asking John if he’s really doing all right. He’s got to keep Greg from catching the scent of what they’re planning, but even if it would be better to stay away, John’s too restless now to resist the pull of their strained friendship.

Greg’s reply is faster than he’d expected.

 

_Can do l8r - when/where?_

 

John meets him at The Feathers, near Scotland Yard. It’s small with dark leather booths, nothing fancy, but he’s looking for a distraction, not a high-end dining experience. His clothes draw a few looks when they make their way to the counter; he should have chosen something less conspicuously expensive, but most of his old things are gone. Greg elbows him, nods at the blond studying him earnestly, but he’s not interested…he prefers darker, shorter hair than hers.

He orders a Belgian ale and Greg gets the same, then they find a booth away from the vultures at the counter. Greg’s conversation is hesitant at first, like John is someone he barely knows instead of an acquaintance of years, but a few drinks later, he’s red-cheeked and laughing…and John is surprised to find himself doing the same.

Later, he’ll reprimand himself for being careless and letting his guard down. He knows by now that something small is all it takes to set off a torrent of cause and effect; he’s seen how one wrong step onto a mine could leave a man walking with crutches (or a cane) for the rest of his life. But his mistake is far more subtle and innocent. In the twisted game he’s part of, though, innocence is a weakness, not an excuse.

By now, their table is littered with empty pint glasses, and John had abandoned his jacket and rolled his sleeves some time ago. He snorts into his glass at some crack Greg’s made, then downs the last of his drink. Greg offers to top him up, but John shakes his head and gets up, weaving his way through the now busy pub to order their next round. He’s just picked up the pints when his phone vibrates in his pocket, but his hands are full, so he heads back to the table. Greg lunges for the pint like he’s dying of thirst in the desert, eliciting a giggling laugh from John, who sits, wobbling a bit before shaking his head and laughing at himself. He reaches into his pocket to check the missed call, but Greg’s saying something and he hits the back button to clear the screen.

It’s only later he’ll realize that in his drunken state, he’d hit Delete instead, and the call from Unknown Number had been erased from his call log as if he’d never received it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse has been MIA for so long. I wrote this chapter some time ago and forgot about it! I have most of the rest of the story plotted out, but the words don't always cooperate. Maybe watching season 4 will help. Anyway, hope you enjoy, and thanks for sticking with me :)  
> \--Katrina

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for this work from a post by Brie - deanspartyhat.tumblr.com/post/17341163880/ - who graciously gave me permission to upload my fic. I was encourage to write this by my best friend and fandom soulmate, Simon.


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